Historical Precedence
by VoiDreamer
Summary: "Please, John." Her words were more potent than a hundred torpedoes could ever hope to be. Two words, twisting in anguish, confusion and fear, uttered into the darkness. He knew he had no other choice. He surrendered. A look into the eight months between a man from the past, and a woman who had, in another life, been part of his future. Slight AU. John/McGivers
1. 01 - The Discovery

AN: So I just watched Into Darkness yesterday and loved it - that being said, I found myself wishing that we had been able to learn more about Khan's backstory and explore his deep love for his family/crew. In particular, I wanted to know what would have happened if instead of just removing Khan's crew from the torpedoes the crew of the Enterprise had actually thawed one out to try and reason with him.

This is a look into what might have happened had this occurred, and how the presence of a particular historian might have changed the events of the movie. Enter Marla McGivers, a woman who I would like to explore in the context of the 2009 reboot; the woman who Khan once considered his wife.

I'd love to hear from you - suggestions, potential plot points, anything! Let me know :)

Enjoy and remember: I own nothing about Star Trek, I just play in the sandbox.

~Voi

* * *

McCoy muttered under his breath as he waited for the lift down to the weapons bay, cursing his orders even as his body went about obeying them. The mission to deactivate the single torpedo had left him wary of all weapons for the foreseeable future and it would have been all too soon if Bones never had to see another one of those blasted things again.

It figured that the green-blooded robot that passed for first officer on Enterprise would ask he deactivate the remaining seventy-one.

"Pointy-eared bastard."

Muttering all the louder, he punched the button for the weapons bay and exhaled slowly, glaring ineffectually at the screen that illustrated his progress through the ship. Steady hands be damned, his mind was a scattered mess.

"Forward bulkhead ruptured, we need a repair team there stat!"

Stepping onto the 4th deck was like walking through a war zone in and of itself, everywhere cords sparked, metal groaned, and the crew of the Enterprise struggled to make sense of what had once been a state-of-the-art starship.

"What is engineering doing?!" The shouting could barely be heard over the sounds of a dying ship, "We're venting oxygen into space – someone close that hole!"

Survival was the whip that drove the crew, the grim specter of death hanging all too close for anyone to dare give up now.

Teeth set in a deep grimace, McCoy passed by man and machine alike as he made a beeline for the weapons locker, dodging fire and shrapnel before he finally got to the reinforced hold that contained the remaining torpedoes.

Punching the communication panel, the doctor grimaced as the image of his second-in-command appeared; the man's face pale but resolved.

"Ellis, I'm going to need a team to meet me down here in ten with all the emergency kits we can spare."

"Yes sir."

"And don't make me repeat myself!" McCoy was off not a moment later, pulling the heavy levers that released the plate door. It barely budged.

"I'm a doctor, not a damn strong man." Grunting with effort, he threw his shoulder against the widest part of it and pushed until he was sure he was about to burst a blood vessel, "Where are those electronic release keys when you need them?"

He was rewarded for his tenacity a second later when the door finally budged, swung slowly on its hinges to reveal the glittering fuselages of the torpedoes. Untouched by the destruction, it seemed ironic that these tools of warfare were the most 'at peace' beings aboard the ship.

But the time to muse on life's little twists was long gone, and McCoy quickly stepped into the room to prepare. He had lost too much time already, and so the minute his team arrived the mission to recover Khan's people began in earnest.

Time rushed forwards then, a collection of steps in which torpedoes were deactivated; cryo-tubes were pulled free and set up with all the proper medical monitoring equipment.

Each torpedo was a little different, a different face in the tube's icy hold, each one of them a stranger from a different time, a different era of humanity.

Jim had told him about Khan, about his origin in the midst of the Eugenics War; a time of great conflict. McCoy had never been a great student of history, but had heard enough about the Eugenics period to know that the man known as Khan had been a rather strange exception to the rule. A peacekeeper, amidst war mongers. Not, Bones amended, that Khan hadn't been fully capable of mass destruction, but in a land of tyrants he had been one of the better ones.

His frowned as he approached the final torpedo, his mind wandering for a moment to the face of a woman he had not seen since graduating; Rhue McGivers, Starfleet Researcher and avid art historian. She had been the history buff, not him. And it had been she who had regaled him with the colorful narratives of the Eugenics war, of a man named Khan and the kingdom he had ruled over. Who could have guessed their late night delves into the past would prove insightful now?

It made him wonder how she would have dealt with the situation had she been aboard.

Opening the power conduit on the side, McCoy returned to the work at hand, relying on muscle memory as he tapped the release mechanism and eased the power out of the torpedo's side. Not ten minutes later he released the final two catches and watched as the top panel slid smoothly off.

And though he had thought of her not minutes earlier the face that greeted him from beneath the icy surface of the cryo-tube made him stop short, his inhale sharp as the breath caught in this throat. The glint of embroidery on her chest told him what he already knew, Lieutenant Marla 'Rhue' McGivers, friend and colleague was there in one of Khan's tubes.

The only question was why.

* * *

Marla 'Rhue' McGivers returned to consciousness with a snap, fear flooding her eyes with tears as she screamed.

"JOHN WATCH OUT BEHIND YOU!"

Her hand shot out toward where she had last seen him and grasped nothing but air, hand passing through the phantom shadow of the man she loved. Sobbing, she tried to make sense of her surroundings, floundered in a sea of light and dark before they slowly solidified into more recognizable forms.

Starfleet issue emergency cots, the low ceilings of a security bunker, and there, backlit against a pile of what looked like torpedoes were three Starfleet officers. She inhaled raggedly, tried to inhale with lungs that were tight in panic in fear. Lurching into a sitting position, she groaned as her muscles ached from disuse, rendering her stuck between repose and sitting.

The world swam until she closed her eyes, forced herself to push more air into lungs that may as well have been trying to pull oxygen from the vacuum of space.

"Easy there, Lieutenant."

There was the momentary press of cold metal against her neck, a beep as it dispensed something into her trembling body.

"Just give it a minute and you'll be ok."

A hand, warm and comforting rested on back, pulled a blanket around her before gently clasping her shoulder. Steady, warm the presence was reassuring.

"It's good to see you, McGivers."

She recognized the voice then, had spent enough time talking to him as a friend and student to know his particular twang anywhere.

"Bones?"

"The very same."

She opened her eyes as she turned towards him, pushing her hair out of her eyes with a hand that still shook. Her muscles still ached, but whatever he had given her had eased the worst of it. Steadying herself with the knowledge that she was safe, however momentarily, Rhue smiled.

"It's good to see you."

He responded in kind though he did look a little more worn around the edges.

"Where are we?" She had no idea how long she had been out, had no idea where she was but she was going to find out.

"Security bunker of the Enterprise."

"The Enterprise?" She was familiar with the starship but to be actually on it was a complete break with where she had been when last she had been conscious. Examining her surroundings with a new eye she glanced around. Clearly the ship was under attack, or at least, recently had been. Debris was everywhere and the wounded were clustered together beneath the watchful eye of a medic or two. And there in the corner were the cryo-tubes, carefully lined up and illuminated by spot lights. Rhue felt her throat tighten in recognition; she had been in one of those not so long ago.

"What's the stardate?"

She braced herself for the answer, but when McCoy rattled it off Rhue felt herself slump in relief. Same stardate, she had barely lost any time at all it seemed. But then she remembered John, remembered her last moments of consciousness.

Her hand went to her side and felt for a wound that was now nothing more than a scar.

"McGivers?"

"It's nothing." She shook her head slightly and winced as her head thundered from the movement, "Fill me in. What's going on?"

"Earth was attacked a few days ago by a man," McCoy hesitated, "He called himself John Harrison."

"John?" She looked around, searching, before it dawned on her, "He's the one attacking the ship?"

"Yeah."

McCoy pulled the mobile communication unit closer to where she was seated and she watched the incoming transmission.

"That's him," her eyes widened as she leaned over the screen, lips thinning as she heard the broadcast, "That's John."

Bones grimaced as she touched the display, he didn't want to tell her the truth but it didn't seem right to let her live a fiction when reality was about to slam shut their lives, "He's not who he says he is."

"Then you know he's Khan." She all but whispered the words then turned towards him as a thought occurred to her, "Did Admiral Marcus finally play his hand?"

"How do you know about that?"

She didn't answer so much as smile again, tilting her head towards where Khan's expression had morphed into one of cold resolution, "He looks just like the history books said he would."

And then her smile faded as she stood, forced upright by strength of will.

"Now, just wait a second."

"I can't." She shook her head, "Someone has to tell him to stop. To tell him we're all ok."

"Rhue, he's not a person who can be reasoned with. He's a weapon, a calculating killer."

"He's a _man_." Rhue replied stubbornly, "And more than that, he's a _good_ man."

She took several steps, weaving uneasily on her feet as she tried to cross to the edge of the bunker. But as the ship took a sharp turn, she stumbled, slammed her shoulder against the doorframe with enough force to wrench a sharp groan from her lips.

"Damn it, McGivers."

McCoy was at her side in an instant, wrapping a protective blanket around her shoulders.

"Someone has to stop him, Bones."

Face set in determination she looked him in the eye before she pushed away from the door, staggered a few more feet to where the emergency lift was waiting.

"Please. Help me save this ship."

* * *

The alert system was going crazy, the red lights flashing and adding more noise to a bridge that was already a mess of straining metal and electronic explosions.

Uhura did her best to remain calm, but couldn't quite help the way her hands shook with the adrenaline her body was producing in such copious amounts. Her fight or flight instincts had kicked in hard this time, and it took all her focus to remain calm, to remember her training and try to get ahold of Starfleet Headquarters down on Earth. The Enterprise was in desperate need of backup, and only she was equipped to send for it.

"Spock!"

Dr. McCoy appeared from the turbo lift looking harried but otherwise ok. At his side was a woman Uhura couldn't say she had ever seen before, the face pale beneath a mop of fiery hair. There was a blanket wrapped loosely around her shoulders, but it was the flash of Starfleet insignia on her chest that drew her interest.

She knew her studies enough to identify Starfleet's Archival Studies Department, but what an unknown archivist was doing on Enterprise was baffling to say the least.

"Doctor?"

Spock noted their new addition with interest, though his eyes never left the view screen where the huge battle cruiser loomed overhead.

"We need to talk to Khan." McCoy spoke for them both apparently.

"I assume this has something to do with our guest, doctor?"

The doctor helped the woman towards the center of the bridge, "Yeah, something like that."

"And this woman is someone we can trust?"

Uhura noted that in this the doctor remained tellingly silent, and the woman made no move to defend herself. Indeed the mysterious woman capable of very little as she rocked unsteadily on her feet, gaze had remained firmly fixed on the viewing screen since she had first appeared.

But before Spock had time to dismiss them the Enterprise was hailed. No one had to ask who it was, and Khan's face appeared on the view screen not a moment later, his expression resolute.

"So, do we have an agreement, Commander?"

His voice, bitingly cold with its British lilt, demanded an answer. And though Spock had opened his mouth to speak, the stranger was faster. Deceptively soft, her voice carried over the noise and reached the one man who seemed to hold their fate in his hands.

"John."

She said just the one word. One _small _word that seemed so entirely inadequate for the situation that it was laughable.

Uhura had no idea what the woman hoped to accomplish by so simple a plea. Indeed, the stranger seemed oblivious to the tension at hand, had no idea of the gravity of the situation. But there was something in the manner of speak that made Uhura pause, something the xenolinguist knew was more than just syntax.

It resonated with the stranger, that small word; like a finely tuned string vibrated at the perfect pitch, those specific words spoken by that specific woman meant more than they seemed.

"_Please_, John."

"What are you doing there?!"

His attention was on the stranger in an instant. His attention centered exclusively on the woman who stood there pale-faced and trembling.

Khan seemed aghast, and for a moment Uhura was reminded of Admiral Marcus when he had made a similar discovery. But where the admiral had turned from surprise to enraged fury, Khan reacted very differently.

"Have they hurt you?"

There was a quiet rumbling of temper though Uhura couldn't say if it was towards the woman or directed to the crew that surrounded her. And his face, once austere had tightened, expression almost stricken as he continued to watch their guest struggle to remain upright.

"Trust me, John."

They were the last words she spoke before it happened; the unthinkable.

Khan surrendered.


	2. 02 - The Meeting (John)

AN: I just want to say THANK YOU for the wonderful response I received for the first chapter. I was not sure how it was going to go and all of the positive comments have been a great boost to my writing speed.

That being said - I am also 100% open to constructive criticism and would love to hear that too if you have any.

In terms of updates, I hope to get a chapter done every couple of days - at least until I establish a more concrete timeline and then we'll see what happens. Again, this is sort of an open experiment for me, so if you have any ideas feel free to toss them into the ring and we'll see what we can do.

As for this chapter - this is part 1 of a 2 part chapter I'm calling 'The Meeting' - this first one will be from John's perspective.

* * *

"Please, John."

He had never expected to see her again, and perhaps that was why her presence was all the more shocking now. He had looked for her everywhere, but Marcus had known him too well, had kept her as a trump card.

He didn't know if he could trust her anymore, but he had promised himself that if the situation ever arose he would do as she asked, this time, if just to make up for his most spectacular mistake. Neither of them could really look the other in the eye anymore, and that was _his _fault.

Her words were more potent than a hundred torpedoes could ever hope to be, and they both knew it. She had always been his weakness. There was no ignoring her words, twisting in anguish, confusion and fear, uttered into the darkness. He knew he had no other choice.

He would trust her with his life; he owed her at least that much.

And so he did the only thing he could, he surrendered.

* * *

Eight Months Earlier:

He had woken to an alien world, an Earth that he no longer recognized. Gone were the wars, the leadership of kings and the eugenics programs that had bred the next evolution of humanity. Instead, he found the world teaming with all manner of alien species and a human race that knew of Augments only as relics of a history not soon to be repeated.

And where he had once been a prince among men, he found himself now little more than a slave, a pet brain for a Starfleet Admiral with an ambition that far outweighed his actual abilities. It was infuriating, but more than that, it was agonizing, to be so painfully alone when he had lived a life surrounded by friends and loyal vassals.

Admiral Marcus had made it clear what he expected, and Khan swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat. The man was supposed to be a leader, and Khan was disappointed to find a war monger instead. Every fiber of his being protested the use of his intellect for the petty means that Marcus demanded. Every second in that man's office was a struggle against his very biology, to fight the instincts that all too easily pointed the weaknesses of the man's security, the exposed points of his all-too-soft physique. He could have done a hundred different things, could have exploited even the smallest error, to send the man careening into the next life.

More than once he had imagined how it would be to reach across that metal desk and choke Marcus until his face turned purple. The thought still made his hands tremble with wanting, and Khan curled them into fists as he walked out the door.

He exhaled slowly, deliberately as he fought the compulsion, willing intellect to win over the overwhelming emotional urge to be free of such barbaric chains. Because there _were _chains that kept him tied to this tyrant. Seventy-two delicate chains kept him tethered, chains that he was desperate not to break.

His crew.

His _family_.

Marcus had them hidden somewhere, had threatened to kill them if Khan made one move against him, though the Admiral had been very particular in saying nothing of Starfleet itself.

It was, Khan knew, why he found himself on his way to plant a particularly damning piece of evidence on one of Admiral Marcus' political enemies, his long stride carrying him easily through the rows of manuscripts and statuary that made up Starfleet's Archives.

How strange that this building would serve as both bane and balm to his existence.

The front for Starfleet Intelligence, it symbolized everything he had come to hate about this life he was now forced to lead. Every book and richly worded manuscript nothing but a mask for the coldly calculating department of secrets, its very existence hinged on a lie.

And _that _was something Khan could not stand. He had been a prince, a leader and even at times a warrior. But never had he been a coward, a _liar;_ the fact that he had to mask his very name made the anger fester all the deeper.

Pausing in the back of a dusty row of books, Khan plucked one from its place and sighed in pleasure at the tactile presence of the tome in his hand. This, at least, was familiar.

It had taken Khan little over two weeks to read all literature on the history of humanity since his flight on the Botany Bay. Newspapers, novels, letters, anything that could be read were consumed with the voracious hunger of one who had nothing and no one to distract him.

The pages had brought him the only sort of pleasure he had managed to scrape out of this new existence.

Replacing the book, Khan quietly studied its companions before turning once more towards the exit. Caught between nostalgia and a bitter acceptance, he had only just rounded the corner when reality came rushing back in a confusing explosion of noise, books and papers as he was sent sprawling backwards.

He had run in to someone.

It was the first time he had ever done so.

Living in a world of genetically enhanced reflexes and super human perception had meant that to touch a person took deliberate thought and exacting action. And Khan had never, in the entirety of his life, literally run into another person before; nor had anyone ever run into him

It seemed that in this case, both had occurred simultaneously.

And though, logically, he should have recovered faster than the human he had collided with, he looked up to find a hand offered in aid. A delicate and well-manicured hand, it looked more suited to anything but helping him get to his feet, but it was offered all the same, another first.

Khan took it, and found the hand to be stronger than it looked, steady as it helped him stand upright. It was then that he finally got a good look at the person attached to that very feminine hand.

She was a pretty thing, he noted absently, not beautiful by any means but she appealed to him on a different level, her mused hair and slightly crooked glasses unapologetically imperfect, honest.

"I am _so_ sorry."

Straightening the glasses on her nose, she flushed a little when straightened the coat on his shoulders, brushed the hair from his eyes, "I really should have been looking where I was going. It's been a crazy morning."

"Indeed?" He agreed with a halfhearted-smile, "Just the morning?"

She laughed then, and the warm sound easily filled the spacious hall, "No, I suppose it's been going on longer than that. This term has been busier than most."

"You are…" He looked at her uniform, "In the Academy?"

"Yes," And then she paused, shaking her head ruefully, "Well, sort of. I _teach_ there."

"I see."

He enjoyed the way her cheeks flushed, the way her eyes drifted shyly towards her feet and away. His upbringing and life during the Eugenics war meant that he was forever examining every action as a potential threat, a prelude to an attack. But with this woman it seemed she posed so little a threat that even his most sensitive instincts had quieted.

Perhaps under different circumstances he might have been disconcerted, but instead he found this total absence of suspicion intriguing, exciting.

There was still plenty of room to hate Marcus and to plan the slow and painful manner in which Khan would kill him, but for this single moment he was diverted.

Another first, another experience he could not have had without her.

And he didn't even know her name.

He chuckled as he bent down to retrieve one of the numerous papers that lay scattered around them.

"I take it these papers are all yours?"

His eyes scanned the text as his brain quickly made sense of the material. It was about the Eugenics War, how interesting. Looking around, he went about gathering them until she appeared at his side once more, the rest of the work in her arms.

"I appreciate your help, really."

"It was not a problem."

"Still," she sighed, "I can't apologize enough, I've been scatterbrained for weeks and it's been getting worse."

"Oh so you run into people on a regular basis?" He grinned then, enjoyed the rush as he teased her and oh so easily drew that pretty blush back on her face.

"Oh no, I think you're a rather special case." She responded back with another sweetly unassuming smile as she straightened the stack of papers on a nearby table.

She extended her hand a moment later.

Another offering, another opening, Khan once more found himself analyzing the gesture; the tactical weaknesses of her exposed flank, the opening she left to the soft skin of her arms, both would deal with her quickly, to say nothing of his other advantages. He could act on it if he wished, but there was a difference between a man and a weapon, and this time he chose to be the man.

For her, he would always choose to be the man.

"Let me introduce myself properly," She asserted kindly, her face open and entirely without artifice, "My name is Marla McGivers."

"Marla."

He spoke the word as he extended his hand, repeated steadily.

"My friends call me 'Rhue'."

This time the smile was on his lips.

"Rhue."

Charming in its brevity, Khan repeated her name and felt the sound of it as a rumble in his chest, tasted it on his tongue; strange and yet so very sweet, almost honeyed.

He extended his hand towards her own, jerking in surprise when her hand gently curled around his larger fingers. Delicate and trusting she placed her hand in his own without reservation, never knowing what he had done with those hands, what he _could_ do.

"It is a pleasure to meet you." He said softly, "My name is John Harrison."

Her eyes, so large and framed by dark lashes, glittered in the darkness and she smiled back.

"The pleasure is all mine."


	3. 03 - The Meeting (Rhue)

AN: Thank you to all who have been reading thus far - the support has been so wonderful and really drives my passion to write more.

I give you the next chapter in our little story, this time the first meeting between Khan and Rhue as seen through her eyes.

So without further ado - here is chapter 3!

Enjoy!

~Voi

* * *

She refused to leave.

They had left her waiting there for hours, but nothing was going to make her move. She was not a particularly stubborn woman, but in this there was no changing her mind. She needed to know he was ok, and with trust being what it was, she needed to see him for herself.

Rhue only wished her body would be as resolute as her mind. Already fatigue had forced her into one of the upholstered lobby chairs, and her eyes burned from overstimulation, as if they too were on the cusp of betraying her.

"McGivers?"

She looked up to see Bones; his face lined with exhaustion, and motioned for him to sit beside her. He did so with a soft groan, his long frame expanding outwards as his body went limp in relief.

She tilted her head to look at him, flinching at the tension in her neck, ""I take it Captain Kirk is doing well?"

He nodded, grabbing the water bottle she had left on the table between them and taking a long drink, "Yeah, the transfusion worked, it was a hell of a close call though."

Nodding silently, Rhue glanced again at the door that led to the high-security wards. Nothing had changed in the few seconds she had looked away, and this time she wasn't even surprised.

And because he had come to know her every little mood McCoy cracked open an eye, "What's up kiddo?"

She smiled thinly, "They haven't let me in to see him yet."

They both eyed the guards, took in the heavy weapons and protective plating they wore. Neither one could blame them for taking precautions, but Rhue couldn't quite swallow her resentment either. John was _not _a bad man.

"Do you think they'll let me see him at all?"

She whispered the words, stricken, caught between the desire to hear the kind words of a friend and the need to know his honest opinion. Terrified that whatever answer she received would be the one that obliterated what small flickering hope she had left.

Bones merely sighed and offered her the water bottle.

"I hope so, kiddo."

* * *

Twelve Months Earlier:

She had been working for Starfleet's Research Division for little more than a month when she was called upstairs. And while others might have smiled at the _honor_, at the _prestige _of being called to talk about their work, Rhue knew better.

It made her nervous, going there. Riding the elevator seemed to take a light-year and every imagined jostle of the lift made her heart jump into her throat.

The summons to the Admiral's Office had not been descriptive in the least, and even now, as she walked down the empty hall and passed the rooms of superior officers she could not understand what she was doing here.

But whatever it was, whatever Admiral Marcus had to say, Rhue doubted it would be pleasant. He had been demanding the Research Division cut costs since long before her arrival and it seemed their most recent decision to hire her had been met with protestation.

Grimacing, she approached the intimidating double doors that posed the final obstruction, eyed it with all the suspicion of one who had never quite made peace with the strict education and punishment systems that had made up her childhood.

But there was no delaying the inevitable, and so with only a deep inhale to fortify herself against the unknown, Rhue pushed open the door and greeted the man waiting within.

"Lieutenant McGivers reporting, Admiral, Sir."

She snapped smartly to attention despite the casual state of her clothing. R and D had never emphasized the uniform, and since Marcus had asked for her immediately the dress blues had promptly been forgotten in her rush.

"Ah, good to have you here, Lieutenant." Standing before the large window that overlooked the bustling San Francisco center, Alexander Marcus gestured towards one of the high-backed chairs, "Please, have a seat."

She obeyed him instantly, settling herself with a minimum of hassle. And when he turned back to look at her she returned his gaze with steady resolve.

"Well McGivers, let me be direct." He glanced at her, "You're here because we have a special project and need someone well versed in history to help us avoid any potentially fatal errors."

Her brow wrinkled in confusion, "Sir?"

"Your file says you specialize in the Eugenics War, is this correct?"

"Yes Sir, all six major kingdoms and some of the smaller ones as well." She shifted in her seat, "Was there something in particular you needed answered, Sir?"

There was a flash of a smile on the Admiral's face, "Of a sort, yes, I suppose so."

He moved behind his desk and sat down, "Tell me, Lieutenant. After the end of the Eugenics War what happened to the Augments?"

"Many were killed in uprisings, Princes overthrown by the people, their loyal vassals killed in kind. Those left were incorporated back into society but remained under heavy suspicion for the remainder of their natural lives."

She gestured to herself, "These Augments took nearly two hundred years to die, and by the time World War III ended the last of the 'super' humans had vanished…" she hesitated, "There is however research that suggest there may have been a discrepancy in records of that time."

"What do you mean Lieutenant?"

"There is some proof, nothing substantial of course, but several documents mention a ship filled with Augments departing from Earth shortly after the fall of the Eugenic Principalities. Eighty-four of them, they have never been accounted for."

Rhue looked down at her hands in sudden self-consciousness, "It seems that despite the sad end of their fellows, this group may have been the exception."

"The exception?" Marcus raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, "What sort of exception, McGivers?"

"Most Augments died as a result of the fighting…that much is true. But…" Rhue paused and licked her lips in agitation, "The ship was a sleeper class, lots of storage and outfitted with the most advanced technology they had at the time. Who knows that Augments with enough resources are capable of?"

"And do you know the name of the ship."

Rhue shook her head, "No, most documents only mention the class, never the name. It was a secret I think."

"A secret, yes." The Admiral nodded once before retrieving the tablet that lay face-up on his desk, "Take a look at this, Lieutenant. Tell me what you see."

Taking the offering, Rhue froze as the image came into view. A ship, a _sleeper _ship with old 20th century rocket boosters lay half imbedded in an icy landscape, the hull pitted with meteor impacts, the words on its side nearly illegible.

"That is the SS Botany Bay, retrieved little over a year ago. We found it frozen on Titan."

"And inside? Sir?" Rhue looked up, eyes huge, "What did you find _inside_?"

The Admiral smiled all the wider as he gestured back to the tablet, "If you would move to the next picture, Lieutenant, I think the image will do more justice than I could."

She hesitated then, paused on the cusp and wondered just what she would be trading to gain such valuable information. But the heart of her, the very soul whispered promises, pointed out that any trade would be worth the price of this particular piece of knowledge.

She moved on to the next image.

"Do you know who that is, Lieutenant?"

Eyes fixed to the screen she didn't look up, _couldn't _look away. Mesmerized, she traced the digital image with a finger; face a study of immense shock.

"It's impossible."

She could barely make the words, pushed them out on a wheezing breath that shook in her lungs. And when at last she finally managed to drag her attention back to the man seated behind the desk, she took a shuddering breath as she tried to blink away the all-consuming intensity of what she had just seen.

The Admiral smiled, "Let me offer you a proposal…"

She was on a shuttle to Jupiter a scant few hours later, her mind racing, her heart thundering in her chest. And when at last she stood outside the sterile room in which he was being held, she found herself reeling at the events of the past few hours.

There had been a secretary to greet her at the door, had given her an access pass to one of the most secluded bases in Starfleet Space, and welcomed her to Section 31. She felt like laughing, like crying. It felt like she had stepped into an alternate dimension where being a book worm meant you were actually being trained to function as a covert operative. But if this was what four years of History courses at Starfleet meant, Rhue almost didn't want to know what exactly the 'Special Lectures' as the Archives really were.

She had the sinking suspicion she would find out soon enough.

But for now she would focus on this, on _him_. Stepping into the decontamination chamber she changed from civilian clothing to white scrubs, leaving her meager possessions in a special locker as she stepped through to the final room.

It was slightly warmer there, comfortable despite the Spartan furnishings. This was to be his room for the next month, his home until it could be proved he could function in everyday life.

But before he could do that, before he could run through their tests like a rat in a maze, he first had to wake up. And even that would be an ordeal, Starfleet had no proper procedures for dealing with cryogenically frozen people and their first _eleven _attempts had all failed, though the last one had very nearly made it.

She didn't know if anyone would tell him about the loss, about the deaths of people who had obviously meant something to him. And part of her didn't want to, because it seemed suddenly barbaric that they had failed so spectacularly, had lost so many lives, when humanity had advanced so far past the era of Eugenics.

Either way, he would need to be strong enough to survive what was to come. And though Rhue did not know yet what Admiral Marcus hoped to gain with her presence at this secret lab she was glad for the opportunity all the same.

This was truly a once in a lifetime experience.

And when at last she mustered the courage to cross the room, to stand at the side of that all too quiet glass tube, she found herself caught up in sensation all over again.

Resting her hand against its surface, she looked past the coat of ice and frost, down to where he lay. And with a voice filled in disbelieving wonder she greeted him for the first time.

The first of a lifetime.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Khan."


	4. 04 - The Ring

AN: Thanks again for all the great support - I love how many follows this story has, it really means a lot.

Again, feel free to send me your thoughts no matter what they are - and I look forward to hearing from your all soon!

Enjoy!

~Voi

* * *

He woke up with the disoriented grogginess that came from heavy sedatives and less than careful measuring. It made sense of course, his human appearance disguised a very different physiology, one that often made for imperfect medical decisions. But he hated their imperfection now as he struggled against the heavy pull of sleep, fought to regain consciousness and control.

Opening his eyes, he fought back a groan of pain as the bright light lanced the delicate tissues of his eyes.

What in the world had the fools given him?

Her flinched reflexively and shut his eyes, counting to ten before he slowly eased his eyes open once more. They watered when at last he got them fully open, but the pain was a manageable one now, controllable.

The door swung open not a moment later as the doctor made his appearance, his identity anonymous behind the standard medical face mask.

"Good Morning, Mr. Harrison."

The doctor greeted him pleasantly, nodding towards his patient as he browsed the information on his tablet. No doubt he had been briefed by someone higher about the _unique _problem Khan posed.

Not that Khan would have a problem with this man if it came to it. Having taken into account everything in the thirty seconds it had taken the doctor to cross the room, he had observed all he needed to.

They had only bound one hand to the bedframe, a tactical mistake that could certainly prove advantageous if it came to it. Khan had also noted the only partially concealed phaser tucked into the man's back pocket – it would be all too easy to reach it, and its presence was more dangerous to the doctor than Khan himself.

But the other thing he had noticed, the thing he had not expected, was the loop that rested easily around his neck. He hadn't thought they would let him keep it. He touched it to remind himself that they had, and the metal felt warm against his skin.

Such an old custom, giving a ring to the one of your heart's desire. But it was an old fashion that suited him well, perhaps because he was such an old man at heart.

It had been his greatest pleasure to make that commitment, and now it served as the heaviest weight in his chest.

"Do you have any next of kin, Mr. Harrison?"

Khan looked blankly out the window as his hand dropped from the ring.

"I used to have a wife."

* * *

Seven Months Earlier:

It was raining in London.

Pouring, actually, absolutely torrential as it battered people and buildings alike. And it was so absolutely beautiful, so enlivening that for just that moment he felt normal, completely and utterly part of this strange Earth that was now him home.

The rain washed away the tension of the past few days, the blood that only he knew was there on his hands. Marcus was an absolute madman and when that incriminating letter had resulted in a far softer judgment Khan had been sent to make the message clear.

Khan had had to make it look like an accident easily enough, but the distaste of such subterfuge seemed to be lodge rather permanently in his throat.

The Admiral was a man of no honor, and even now the urge to do away with such an abhorrent man beat strongly in his chest. It wasn't just the killing though, Khan pulled the hood of his coat down a little more as he continued to walk, it was Marcus' new interest in weapons, technologies of war.

He had spent all of yesterday discussing the possible designs for a dreadnought-class warship and was supposed to arrive with more ideas tomorrow for another meeting.

Exhaling slowly, he closed his eyes and let the rain do its job, the soft staccato beat of the weather soothing the temper until he could manage it once more.

"John!"

He opened his eyes to find her not a block away, dressed gaily in a bright green raincoat and a pair of black wellies, her hand waving rapidly as she tried to get his attention. Hair caught beneath a hat, small tendrils had escape and lay plastered to her face and neck like crimson ribbons. Never had she looked so lovely.

They met beneath the brightly lit awning of the closest cafe, the one that had quickly become a favorite meeting place.

Breathe swirling like fog in the air, she grinned when he neared, nose pink from the cold.

"I thought that was you!"

Khan smiled pulled his hood down, "I almost didn't recognize you. Where are your glasses?"

It was a lie, but one he told easily, taking pleasure in the way her cheeks brightened in pleasure.

"Oh I only need them for research," she explained as she tugged her hood down in a mirror of his own movement and ruffled her hair until it regained its usual curled mass.

"The small text is too much for my poor eyes. But I could see you just fine."

"You could have them corrected, if you wanted." He pointed out as they head towards the door. They had had corrective eye surgery even in his own era, so it was

Rhue shrugged as she passed him, "What for? The glasses work well enough."

"You liked old, out of fashion, things do you? He smiled as he opened the door for her, but paused to take a look inside. Three individuals and a couple were within, and while the barista seemed a good example of physical strength, no one seemed to pose an immediate threat.

"Yes," she smiled up at him as she passed through the doorway, looking quizzically as he paused to make his second look around the room. "Thank you."

Then, in deference to his holding the door she grinned, "I can appreciate chivalry too."

John matched her smile with a small one of his own, "Of course you can."

They ordered their drinks a moment later, making small talk as they crossed to the pair of seats situated by the merrily roaring fireplace that was the cornerstone of their café experiences.

"Ah, just what I needed."

Humming in pleasure, Khan watched as she luxuriated in the warmth of the fire and eased back to enjoy her drink.

"Another mocha?" He asked the question though he already knew the answer. Rhue was unquestionably a creature of habit, and her decision to drink coffee in _London _was completely the result of her upbringing in the States.

Indeed, she didn't even bother responding, just grinned before she took another sip of her drink, licking the porcelain lip before taking another savory mouthful.

"Why John, I do believe you've found me out."

"An American in London to the end." He responded blandly though his eyes glittered in amusement, "We really do have to change that."

"Well if it's any consolation," she said, "I did enjoy the fish and chips we had last week."

"That hardly counts," Khan retorted, "That meal was the poorest excuse of fish and chips I have ever had the misfortune to eat."

"I liked it!" She protested, "The breading was great and the chips were hot!"

"The breading was thick enough choke a horse, and the chips were dry."

Grumbling to herself, Rhue took another sip of her drink muttering under her breath, "Food snob."

Khan smiled as he poured his tea, "I heard that."

"Doesn't make it any less true."

He chuckled and brought his tea to his lips, "Touché."

"I do suppose you would know a good fish and chips though," she offered generously after a long moment "You're a proper British man, after all."

"Mmm." He put the cup down, "I'm not actually all that British actually."

"No?" She looked intrigued, "You certainly sound like one."

"I was born in India," He admitted after a moment, "Which given its historical background makes a little bit of sense, but not much."

"Hmm," she seemed to consider his words, "What part of India?"

"The Northern bit."

She smiled then, "You certainly are a surprising man, Mr. Harrison. I never would have guessed."

He quirked an eyebrow her way, "Then it is a good thing you did not have to."

The mocha was sipped with amused consideration, "Indeed."

The door to the café opened not a moment later, and from the curtain of rain stepped a well-dressed man with a briefcase. Khan did not look directly at him, but his instincts prickled as the stranger moved closer. This one was dangerous, it was there, written in the broadness of his shoulder, the easy strength of his arms. No businessman would have need of the calluses on the pads of his fingers, the inside of his palms. Those were the hallmarks of a killer, and Khan didn't think the man needed a weapon to be deadly either.

Not that Khan had a problem with killers, he could hardly fault the man when he himself was so similar. But there was something in the eyes, Khan glanced at his quarry for only a moment, the eyes said more about his temperament than anything else.

Remorseless, the man clearly had no qualms with doing as he was bid.

But then the strangest thing happened, and Khan felt his hackles raise as the blonde's eyes fell on the woman sitting just to Khan's left.

"Rhue!"

He was at her side a moment later, sweeping her up into his arms and she shrieked in delight.

And every objective assessment Khan had made shattered as his feelings congealed into a hatred so fierce it left him temporarily mute.

"Owen!" She was laughing as he swung her around, face a mask of happiness and surprise, "What are you doing here?"

The blond man smiled back as he set her down "Can't a man say hi to his favorite lady?"

And that was when he noticed Khan, or at least, made a show of noticing him. Khan didn't doubt he had been noticed the moment Owen had entered the small shop. And again he felt hatred bloom all the hotter in his chest, driven deeper by how very similar the two men seemed.

"Who's this?"

Khan didn't bother introducing himself, merely turned to Rhue with a pointed look.

"Yes, Marla." He drawled, voice viciously soft, "Who is this gentleman?"

And Khan felt a terrible pleasure in the way she paled, the way her eyes suddenly flickered between them before she finally turned to her companion. Let her panic, a part of him whispered coldly, let her name the parameters of their relationship.

"Owen, I'd like you to meet John, a friend."

Swallowing she turned to Khan, "John, this is Owen, my boyfriend."

The words stung more than Khan would have liked, had thought possible. But then, she had always been the exception to every rule he had ever placed on himself.

Perhaps it was better this way, she had been distraction enough.

Khan stood before he quite knew what he was doing, his face impassive as he made to grab his coat.

"John…"

He ignored the plea in her voice, barely looked at her as he shrugged his coat onto his tall frame. Movements careful, nearly mechanical, it was only when a hand was thrust out to him that he looked up.

Owen, offering his hand, a rueful smile on his face.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, John."

Khan smiled coldly and didn't take the offered hand, "Likewise."

And without another word, he stepped around the couple and disappeared into the rain-soaked night. It hadn't been a pleasure in the slightest, but for a moment, for that precious hour alone with her it had almost felt _right_.

It was a very long time before Khan returned to the café.


	5. 05 - The Absence

AN: Wow you guys are wonderful! I had so much great feedback from the last chapter I am still floored. The positive comments have been super with my desire to write and I finally got this one done. I hope to have another one done by next Monday at the very latest, but have a busy upcoming weekend and may need a bit more time.

Thanks again and I hope you enjoy.

Also, as a side note (and to clarify since there was some confusion) right now there are two 'flashback' arcs. One in Rhue's POV - that occurs BEFORE John ever meets her in the Archives, and the other #2 is from John's POV (thus far) and deals with the 8 month period in which they get to know one another.

This chapter will actually be the last in Rhue's 'flashback' arc and from the next chapter on, all 'flashbacks' will occur in sequential chronological order. I hope this helps clear things up - and I apologize if I made things unnecessarily confusing for my lovely readers.

Thanks again for being so great!

~Voi

* * *

They let her visit him when he was unconscious, nearly six hours after she had first arrived. Standing in the doorway Rhue knew she should have expected it, but the sight of him lying prone and defenseless on the bed made her heart twist, her chest ache.

It had been a very long time since she had seen him like this, since he had needed her for protection. Not, she amended, that he actually _needed _her protection, but she vowed to look after him all the same.

"Miss McGivers, would you mind if we take a few tests before we leave you together?"

She shook her head mutely and let the doctors go about their business, checking his heart rate, adjusting the delicate cocktail of drugs and saline that they were pumping into him.

Beckoned forwards at one point, Rhue helped out when directed, holding up his arm, counting the number of inhales and exhales, whatever they asked she did.

And when at last the doctor left, when the door slid quietly shut, she crossed the room to his side. Holding his much larger hand, she marveled at the familiarity of the touch, the warmth of his skin despite the chill of the room.

His face was also exactly as she remembered, all the more real now that he was no longer staring at her from a screen. There were faint lines around his eyes now, like hairline fractures on a porcelain surface, and those were new. But otherwise he looked much as he always had; a picture of human genetics perfected.

She brushed the silky softness of his hair, traced the line of his jaw, allowed herself to finally accept that he was really there. Pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, she pressed her ear to his chest and listened to his heartbeat, and the steady thrumming between his lungs was the most beautiful of melodies, the sound of life itself.

And for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, Rhue felt happiness, for him, for them both. They were alive.

It was later, when she was settling the blanket more comfortably around his shoulders, that she made her discovery. There against his skin, the cord and its precious pendant, the ring.

Rhue hadn't thought he would still have it, and the realization that he had…

She touched it and agony lanced through her, guilt and pain bloomed with such intensity that it drove the very breath from her lungs.

And though she managed to subdue her tears, to hold them back, her throat tightened and not even her hand pressed to her mouth could stifle her single, solitary whimper.

Because he still had the ring around his neck and around her neck was _nothing_.

* * *

Eleven Months Earlier:

"Welcome back, Miss McGivers."

"Thank you, Katherine." Smiling as she sailed past the secretary, Rhue swiped her badge on the security post and paused for the retinal scan. All these things had since become part of the daily routine, and she took them in stride.

Pulling her sketch book and pencils from her bag, she stowed the remained of her things in her designated locker before heading towards the observation room where she had spent the better part of three weeks.

She had enough sketches to last a lifetime, but every time she found something different about him to draw, an angle she had not considered. Part of her wondered if her drawings were in some sort of security violation, but thus far no one had made it an issue and she was content to continue her work.

Educating the staff of the base had taken all but a week, with reminders sent every few days. Otherwise, the true test of her abilities would come when Khan finally woke.

He had pulled through the defrost process without issue but had remained in a coma in the weeks following.

"McGivers!"

She heard the steady sound of footsteps and turned to find one of the doctors running after her, his expression eager.

"Hello Calvin, is there news?"

"Is there!"

Rhue grinned as he flapped his arms wildly as he spoke, he looked positively bright eyed and bushy-tailed and the energy was infectious.

"He's finally woken up!"

There was no need to qualify who _he _was as there was only one man who was the current center of her universe and it was not her boyfriend Owen.

Rhue and Calvin entered the observation room not a moment later, twin expressions of curious excitement on their faces. And after the initial tests were done, Rhue was allowed in, for the first and last meeting she would be allowed with the subject.

With Khan.

He looked at her with blurry eyes when she entered, his expression a cross between confusion and deep-rooted suspicion. It was to be expected given his background, and Rhue took it in stride.

"Hello, John."

She sat down across from him, giving him his space, trying to make herself as unthreatening as possible. There were certain protocols she had to follow, and introducing him to his new alias was one of the first priorities.

She waited until he had settled himself before she repeated herself.

"My name is _Khan_." He spoke with the haughty might of one who was used to giving orders, of directing armies.

His voice was deeper than she had expected, husky almost as it sank into her very bones. Dangerous, her mind warned, the man's voice was as hypnotic as a snake. Rhue swallowed at the comparison, acknowledging its truth for truly this man was as dangerous as one too.

"It is important, for your safety and others that you are known as John."

"Where is my family?" He ignored her, asked her the questions he cared to have answered.

"Do you understand what I've told you, John?" Her continued resistance to his orders would frustrate if not entirely infuriate him, but the Eugenics war had left an imprint on him that needed to be cleaned up as much as possible if he had any hope of functioning in the present day Earth.

"My name is _Khan_," There was a deadly seriousness in his voice, in his expression, "I will not say it again."

He did not need to make threats, and that too was part of who and what he was.

"My name is Marla," Rhue offered instead, "I'm a -"

"My crew." He ground out, hands clenching as he grew angrier, "Where. Are. They?"

She remained quiet, would continue to do so until either he tried to force it out of her or until he accepted her terms for what they were.

He sprang to his feet then, towering over her menacingly.

"Now!"

He was an imposing figure, tall and forbidding with his dark hair and ice-cold gaze. Men of power often were terrifying in their own way. But Rhue had spent nearly five years studying him to the exclusion of all others, she _knew _him about as well as anyone could hope to.

Selfish and self-absorbed were to be expected, egotistical came with the territory, but she knew he was above all else a very intelligent man. And she could only hope that he would be made to understand the gravity situation without violence, a result that might only come through careful instruction.

Oh but it was difficult to treat him with cool disinterest when he was the man she had read so much about with such deep rooted passion.

His eyes darkened from delicate Cambridge blue to a dark Prussian not a moment later and for a terrified, crazy second Rhue wondered if maybe he could read minds. Indeed it almost seem likely as he smiled at her then, a lazy sort of half-smile that made her heart beat all the faster.

"You find me attractive."

It wasn't a question, and Rhue swallowed hard.

Mentally fumbling, she forced herself to

"That doesn't matter one way or another," Rhue responded candidly though her stomach quivered at the look in his eyes. She added the last bit just to return their footing to neutral ground, "John."

His eyes narrowed then, "Fine. I am _John_," he spat the name out with distaste, "Now where is my crew?"

She smiled, "I really have no idea."

And though he went silent for a moment, stilled until he seemed more statue than man, his words were those of a very passionate, very _living _person.

"_Get out_."

The words were uttered with a flatness that bellied a great rage; she could see it in the slight tremor of his hands, the only motion on his otherwise stone-smooth façade. But when she failed to listen to him, failed to _obey_, that was when he acted.

She had almost forgotten he was a warrior as much as a prince and his anger when acted upon was instant, absolute and entirely encompassing. His hand had grasped the delicate glass cup before she could say another word, the object hurled across the space with such speed that it very nearly cracked the mirrored window that served as portal to the observation room.

Next followed the small vase, aimed at that same spot in the window.

Until the mirror finally did crack.

But though he raged, though he threw the glass of water and tore through the dozen other small objects in the room never once did he raise a hand towards her nor make her a target of his rage.

"McGivers." The communicator in her ear buzzed as she was hailed, "Time to get out of there Lieutenant."

Part of her protested that her meeting was cut so short, that the time she has so been looking to spending had now all but disappeared. But there was that small part of her that quivered in fear, a part of her that eyed the ferocity of Khan's actions and trembled.

She stood up, slowly so as not to surprise him and like the predator he was, he noted her with an attentive stillness. Eyes, nearly silver in the cool white of the room, followed her until she could touch the door. Rhue could see his throat work, as if he meant to say something, but as the door slid open with a soft hiss, he stopped trying.

Still, she paused a few minutes longer, waiting for Khan, for _John_, to say something as she tried to commit his face to memory. And as she glanced at that face for a final time, she felt a sudden flutter in her chest and with it the first betrayal of every emotion she had thought exclusive to Owen.

"Goodbye, John."

Standing where he was, every muscle rigid, he turned away from her at the last minute, dismissed her with the grace of a king. But just before the door slid shut, he surprised her, and his low voice echoed easily in the silence.

"Goodbye Marla."

She would remember his face for many months afterwards, would recall with startling clarity the thrill of his surprising goodbye, the brightness of his eyes as he watched her go. And when they met once more, this time as strangers, she would realize that in many ways he had not changed. For all of Starfleet's conditioning, Khan would never truly be 'John' and for them to ever believe otherwise would be a miscalculation on their part, one with very serious consequences.

But, for now, her work at the Jupiter base was done. And until Marcus called upon her once more, she would return to the research department, to her little lab and paintings.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye, guys."

She smiled as she pulled the tie out of her hair, walked to her locker and began to empty it of her possessions, "I'd love to hear about your progress but I have a feeling it'll confidential."

Calvin grinned as he looked up from his tablet, "It is one of the drawbacks of our line of work, McGivers. But if it makes you feel any better, the time we're done with him it'll be like you're dealing with a different person entirely."

The words alarmed her, and Rhue looked up in shock, "Really?"

"Yeah," Calvin looked chagrined, "Admiral's orders, drug cocktails and behavioral adjustments. It'll make him more manageable, more likely to provide Starfleet whatever it

"But that's completely unethical." Rhue turned to look at the man behind the mirror, the prince turned pauper.

"I really don't think Section 31 or the Admiral cares too much about ethics."

"But what about what happened today?" She asked, hands clutching her bag, "He didn't hurt anyone. He's not a bad person. I could stay on, maybe if he got to know me…"

"He won't remember you after today;" the scientist, a woman named Genie, told her gently, "The drug treatments starts in six hours."

Marla fell into stricken silence.

"This is why the Admiral wanted you out of here today." Calvin smiled sadly, as he patted her arm, "You're a soft heart, McGivers. It was only a matter of time before you started seeing him as a person rather than a tool."

It was strange hearing those words from a man who was otherwise so warm and kind. Rhue half wondered if maybe this was how Starfleet Intelligence worked and she had only thought them different because to some degree she was just a visitor, another low-level mission that all the other agents had to deal with for the month that she was around.

Well the mission was clearly over, and the reality of the situation was nauseating, and so very inhumane.

"But he _is _a person." Rhue protested, "You can't just...'"

She trailed off; feeling helpless as Calvin gently propelled her out of the observation room and walked with her down the hall towards the shuttle bay.

They had gone not more than ten feet when he paused, eyes darting as he subtly pulled her aside, finding a small cove to talk.

"Calvin?"

"I need you to look into your bag like you've just realized you are missing something." He spoke the words under his breath, as he crossed his arms.

And as Rhue began to do as he asked, she kept her ears open for what she knew to be his true intent.

"I am part of a group of interested individuals, people who know what it means to be perceived as dangerous because of who and what they are."

Glancing up at him for a moment, Rhue turned back to her purse with a frown as the small hairbrush she had been holding tumbled to the ground.

"What do you mean?"

"The Augments that survived the Eugenics Wars had children, just as any normal human being might," Calvin said quietly, as he handed her the brush, "Hundreds of years and generations of children don't make those gifts any less present in their offspring."

And that's when she understood.

"You have a family member?" There was no stopping the slight awe in her voice, the tinged ring of jealousy.

The doctor smiled faintly, gestured to the lab, "Several of us do."

"Then you won't let the Admiral hurt him?"

Calvin smiled sadly, "I don't know that we can do too much. He _will _get the drug treatments, and the behavioral testing is not something we can get around. But –"

He looked at her then, _really _looked at her.

Rhue swallowed, "Yes?"

"Find him," His words were suddenly desperate, "After all of this is over, find him and help set him free."

It was more than she expected, and honestly more than she thought she was capable of. Rhue shook her head.

"I don't know. Shouldn't you just talk to him about this?"

"He would never trust us. And I know you will, if just because you care about him enough to try."

A small smile then, a trusting one flickered across his face before he continued, "You won't be alone, not really. We'll send you whatever information we can."

"But what makes me so special?"'

And that was when Calvin smiled, a bright sunny smile that reminded her of their month working together.

"Because you are the first person in a very long time that has looked at us, at Augments, and seen human beings not tools. I know you'll do everything in your power

"I don't have much power to speak of." Rhue said softly.

The doctor smiled, "You're just saying that because you don't know any better."

And then he was moving, leading her once more to where the shuttle was waiting. He said no more on the matter and, for all of her questions, Rhue remained silent too.

In the end it would be her choice that much was clear.

Her decision was made when two months later with the arrival of the first encrypted message.

She transferred to London, and not a week later ran into a very familiar face.

A man who called himself John.


	6. 06 - The Other Man

AN: Thanks to everyone who has been reading! Here is another chapter for your viewing pleasure.

As a bit of a note, in order to clear up confusion when reading I have decided that the next couple of chapters will be focusing more on the developing relationship between John and Rhue and will be following the chronological order of things (yay following a proper timeline!). I apologize to anyone who has been confused, I tend to write very much from the seat of my pants so I hope future editing will be able to clear up the earlier chapters in time.

I hope you enjoy this one! Thanks again!

~Voi

* * *

He isn't alone.

Instinct told him even before he had fully risen from sleep, that there was someone there on his right. A person yes, but were they a threat?

There's a flutter of movement, a feather-light shift that emphasizes the small hand that's now wrapped around his larger one. And that's when he hears it.

A sigh, soft and low, he knows then who it is the moment that quiet exhale reaches his ears. And though a hundred small memories threaten to submerge him once more in the inky abyss of sleep, the realization that _she _is next to him is a prize worth waking for. And as her hand tightens ever so slightly, the feel of it is compelling enough to make his eyes open, light blue irises framing the pupils that focus so intently on her sleeping form.

What was she doing here?

There's a pain in his chest, a sort of frightened hoping that he's trying desperately to keep contained. And it's a struggle to do so as his chest shudders with a sort of maddening mix of relief and sharp terror.

"Marla?"

His voice is hoarse from disuse, from too many hours sleeping off pain killers that do nothing for a body as finely tuned as his own. And though he is sluggish as he rolls to his side, has to pause for several long seconds to finally feel like himself again, he managed to inch ever closer to where she is resting.

He's never let go of her hand, not once. And it is a relief that it feels so warm, so vibrantly alive when all else in this room has been reduced to cool sterility.

"Marla."

He's nearly level with her face now, can see the dark purple beneath her eyes, the exhaustion that has her sleeping so deeply that even his less-than-graceful movements cannot shake. And though he wishes she would hurry up and open her lovely eyes, for her long lashes to flutter open, part of him hesitates.

They had parted in the worst sort of way, and he wonders if he really wants to know what she will say when she finally does open her eyes. He already knows his first words will be an apology.

* * *

Six Weeks and Two Months Earlier:

"John!"

He was walking again, walking as was his habit. Easy strides carried by his long legs, he moved with speed even at his most relaxed, unhurried pace. It usually meant he could get to wherever he was going in a decent amount of time, without the need of the more high-tech modes of transportation available. But as he heard his name called out again there was no avoiding the internal flicker of anger and irritation he directed at himself.

It felt like a betrayal, and this time he had been betrayed by his own body.

Or maybe it was that Khan was feeling betrayed by the man who now lived as _John_.

He had known, intellectually, that walking by the Archives on his way home was likely to increase his chances of running into her. And yet he can continued to walk by whenever he could, his lazy canter giving him all too much time to wonder at his own action.

He had _known _he would run into her.

So why had he bothered?

When so much of his irritation stemmed from their meeting nearly two weeks ago at that coffee shop, what had made him continue on such a stupid course of action?

He was insane, clearly.

"John, please!"

Closing his eyes for a moment, Khan exhaled, willing himself not to turn and look at her. It wouldn't have made a difference in any case. He already knew what she was wearing, has used a combination of peripheral vision and the multitude of reflective buildings to identify her even as he crossed the street to escape.

And it had infuriated him that she had looked so soft, so pretty in that dress and coat, with her hair curling at the ends. No doubt she was planning on meeting her boyfriend later.

Khan glowered at the thought and stepped a little faster, legs eating up the sidewalk beneath him.

Stupid, stupid man, he chastised as he turned down the street, tucking his coat around him more thoroughly. What had he been expecting?

She was running now, he could hear it in the near-frantic beat of shoes on pavement. It echoed in the otherwise empty street, her sharp gasps of breath cutting the air.

"John." She appeared at the edge of his vision for a split second before she lagged again, "Please."

And like the traitor it was, his body slowed down.

_John _slowed down.

Khan grit his teeth in irritation.

"John, please. I feel like you've been freezing me out."

"I have."

He didn't bother looking at her, didn't stop walking. Stopping would accommodate her, accommodate the weakness of her own human body and he _refused _to do that again. Damn her, but he didn't want to do that again, not when she made his mind weak with thoughts of her.

"I don't understand you at all." He spoke the words on the end of a low growl, and angry tirade to both her and himself.

She huffed a little with the effort to keep up, "What do you mean?"

"You have a boyfriend."

"Yes."

Neither could deny the truth of the statement, but Khan couldn't quite understand why she would continue to follow him. It made no sense, but maybe she too found herself pulled by a traitorous body. The thought gave him no comfort, and he loathed his own weakness all the more for it.

"Then _why _are you bothering me?"

He paused then, rounded on her with all the speed and grace of one of superior genetics. She stopped short on a sputter, and he watched as she bent in half, trying to catch her breath.

Cheeks pink, eyes shut in concentration she never saw the brief smirk of amusement on his lips. It was gone by the time she had reopened her eyes.

"What can I do to prove that I'm serious?"

She was smaller, slighter, than him by at least a foot. But as she met his gaze, held steady against his anger and cool fury, she seemed his equal in all things.

"Serious about what?"

He asked the question with bland disinterest.

"About you," Rhue paused before clarifying, "About being here for you as a friend."

Khan sniffed, "Friends?"

The word was not one he had heard for some time. Even in his own time there had been little talk of friendship, instead there had been vassals and the bonds of loyalty. His family, his most treasured followers, had been there to support him, to aid him in his quest for supreme control. But ultimately the throne had stood alone.

There had been no one to equal him, not physically, no intellectually. And life had worked well despite the isolation.

Marla's offer of friendship was more presumptuous, more loathsome than most offers he had received since waking. In many ways it reminded him too much of Marcus' belief that _he, _the Admiral, was Khan's equal and that was an unforgivable insult.

But as she continued to watch him, her expression open, completely unaware of the implication of her request, Khan realized that to her the offer was made without artifice.

Instead of Marcus who believed he could somehow equal the sort of man Khan was, Marla was content in offering herself up not as an equal but as a participant in a relationship where they would both learn.

It was all there, in the anxious smile, in the way her cheeks still shone pink from her earlier exertions. She cared to be his friend because she wanted to be there for him, whether or not he actually needed her.

It was more than he could have asked for.

"Just friends?" He asked quietly, watching her as she absorbed her question.

He didn't wait for her to finish, wasn't sure what sort of reply he preferred to hear. Instead he grabbed her by the arm as he took off again down the street. But this time he checked his speed, slowed to account for her shorter legs, the dainty shoes on her feet. And together they spent the day exploring London.

It was some time later, as they sat down on a bench nursing yet another order of fish and chips that Khan came to admit, if not exactly accept, that for all of his anger, his irritation, there seemed nothing he could do against this one woman.

Turning to look at her, he couldn't quite stop the small smile that came with watching her dig into the hot basket of chips, taking pleasure in the delight she found in so simple a meal. And yet, it was also unsettling, worrying that he could find so much peace, so much familiarityand comfort, with a woman who was still in many ways a stranger.

That she leaned against him so comfortably, head settling against his shoulder, made him wonder at the way his stomach tightened in twin sensations of pleasure and discomfort.

"Sometimes I feel like we've met before."

The admission was out of his mouth before he could censor the thought, yet another betrayal by the body that he has grown to love and hate in equal measure. Khan would never have admitted to such a thing, but _John…_

He looked down to see her eyes had come up to meet his once more. Large and luminous in the late-day sun, she seemed to see straight into him.

"Like déjà vu?" She asked her question quietly, carefully.

"No, something else."

He couldn't quite put his finger on it and it frustrated him. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder seemed a comfort to them both, a natural reaction on his part, _John's _part.

Khan's mind on the other hand was all too quick to point out the ways in which he might turn the friendly gesture into an act of war.

"John?"

For a moment he wonders if she can see just how confused he is, how very much it feels like two people inhabiting a singular body. But instead of answering her right away he looked to the river. Smooth despite the churning power of all that water, he used it to steady himself, to calm the chaos that always seemed to sing just beneath the surface.

"It is the strangest thing that I feel like this." John finally responds the question, not Khan, and it feels so natural to admit to the confusion, "It makes no sense and yet…"

"Maybe it's because we have." She doesn't look at him and he does not look at her, but there is a hesitation as her comment hangs like a tantalizing clue, a suggestion.

It disappears with his easy dismissal, the barest shake of his head, "We have not."

"Are you so sure?"

Her question is spoken with uneven tone, so unlike her that it makes him pause and look at her with new eyes.

"Rhue?"

She has captured his attention in its entirety, has his interest tied to her in a hundred different ways for a thousand other reasons, but her next question makes his awareness sharpen to a razor's edge.

"Why don't you come back to my apartment?"

And though John smiles at the invitation, _Khan_ wonders for the first time if Marla McGivers is perhaps more than she lets on.

* * *

AN: I wanted to make a very clear distinction between John and Khan as two sides of a single coin.

As I was writing I kept finding that I would mentally refer to 'John' when writing the developing relationship with Marla and 'Khan' would appear whenever there was any suspicion or tension between himself and the new situation he found himself in. I figure that as the story progresses the line between these two facets will eventually disappear - but at least for this chapter I tried to show the internal struggle faced by this complex character.

Just a little bit of author-y thought process, let me know if that would be something you would be interested in exploring more!


	7. 07 - The Painting

AN: Hello All, thanks for your continued support, I can't believe how much love I've received, you have all be super! As always, feel free to offer up suggestions, plot points etc I am always up for mixing up my plans!

I'm sorry this one took a little longer getting out, but I hope it is worth the wait. I hope you all had a nice week and enjoy this chapter. Also, as per my last note, this chapter follows directly after Chapter 06 'The Other Man' and will move chronologically from there.

Enjoy!

~Voi

* * *

She wasn't sure if she was doing the right thing. Indeed every sensible part of her that she had lost it.

_What could she possibly gain with this visit? What did she hope to achieve?_

In any case it was too late to change her mind now. Looking just over her shoulder she could see his head bobbing over the crowd as he easily wove his way through. Steady, measured, he kept pace with her as she slowly snaked through the city towards her apartment.

Darkness was already creeping over London, and by the time they arrived at her building the world was tinged a deep purple. It should have signaled an end of day, a quieting. But still the city pulsed onwards, beating with the lives of its millions of occupants. Distantly, Rhue could hear the high pitched whine of emergency sirens, could almost sense the wake of air that the shuttles displaced as they flew just overhead.

"We are here?"

John's voice was at once curious and suspicious. And though his expression conveyed only the latter, as he turned from the building to face her there was the hint of a smile on his lips.

The sight of it made Rhue's heart beat that much faster in her chest. Caught between the silvery shadow of night and the gold of old city lamps he looked very much as she imagined him, a man caught between two worlds. Old and new, she could still see the way he lingered over this existence, the way he would pause every time something new managed to surprise him.

He did so when she keyed into the apartment's inner lobby.

"Retinal scans were notoriously insecure back where I lived."

She couldn't glance away from the scanner but asked, "In India?"

"Yes."

His remark made her smile though it also said a lot more about the brutality of the Eugenics War. It was not mentioned in any textbook, but Rhue could readily imagine why eye-scans would prove easily fooled.

"They just installed these new ones," She looked at the offered security picture and glanced at the objects in the order she had designated for her security code, "It's a little harder to fool these ones, I think."

The door swung open when she confirmed the last of the images, and though she said nothing, John caught the door, held it open until she had entered.

"Harder to fool?" He didn't sound even remotely convinced, "I would hope so, for your sake."

Rhue said nothing, but smiled as she led the way up two flights of stairs and down a brightly lit hallway. Her apartment complex may not have been the most modern or luxurious of abodes, but it was clean, well kept, and had an unmistakable charm that had won her over from the first.

Perhaps she truly was in love with all things historic.

Sliding the old-fashioned key into the equally antiquated lock, Rhue paused for secondary ID scans to complete before she opened the door.

"Welcome to my humble abode."

Arms spread wide, she walked into the modest foyer and opened her coat closet.

"Can I take your coat?"

Trying to be polite, Rhue paused for a moment before clarifying, "It tends to get pretty warm in here."

John deposited his lovely mercury colored coat in her closet a moment later, another smile on his lips as he very purposely circumvented her offer.

"You know, I _am _capable of putting coats away."

Grousing as she moved from foyer to kitchen, she waited until he ducked his head in, before adding, "I am _also_ capable of boiling water. Would you like some tea?"

He merely nodded once before disappearing down the hall, dark hair nearly brushing the ceiling. It would have been funny if Rhue hadn't been caught up in preparing the small tray with mugs and biscuits.

The next few minutes were passed in companionable silence as she went from kitchen to living room, straightening pillows and folding blankets while John poked around her guest bedroom, bathroom and whatever small corners were busy collecting dust.

Not, she told herself, that there was any dust to be seen, but he was a most curious man.

Indeed, it wasn't until he attempted to open her studio door that he ran into any trouble.

"Rhue, the studio door is locked."

Smiling knowingly, Rhue took the angrily screeching kettle and pours its contents into the pair of mugs on the tray, "I know."

He appeared a second later, his large strides carrying him into the living room where he settled himself, expression thoughtful.

"Why?"

Rhue appeared with the tray a moment later.

"Why is it locked? Or why is it that I know it is locked?"

He scowled as she deliberately played obtuse. Still, he accepted his mug with a polite 'thank you' and took an appreciative sip of his drink without pressing her further.

"Why is the door locked?"

He tried his question again after several minutes, this time bolstered by several biscuits and half his tea.

"Because I lock it after I use it." Rhue's eyes sparkled with amusement, "There are important artist discoveries being made in there. I can't have people stealing my secrets."

He didn't seem to know how to deal with her humor, and he sat there for a long moment before speaking up again.

"Are you a professional?"

This time she grinned, "A professional hobbyist maybe."

"You paint."

"A bit."

"Oil?"

"No, well sometimes." She nodded towards of artwork on her wall, "Watercolor and sketches mostly."

Then she paused, as something dawned on her. "How did you know it was the door to my studio?"

This time it was John who smiled.

"No matter how much ventilation a room has, the smell of linseed oil tends to linger."

"Which is why you thought I pained in oil." Rhue leaned back, pleased with his answer, "Well done, you're a regular Sherlock Holmes."

He scoffed, "In another life maybe."

John leaned back and took another long drink. But instead of speaking again he seemed content in looking around. Rhue, for her part, was enjoying doing the same. There was something so very novel in his presence, at having 'Khan' seated in her living room, a guest.

Perhaps childhood dreams did come true, no matter how strange.

Or, she amended somewhat ruefully, perhaps the stranger the better. She had yet to meet anyone else who had wanted to meet a Eugenics Prince as a child.

The phone rang then, disrupting the easy quiet that had fallen over the two.

Jerking upright, Rhue made to grab for the phone only to find it materialize in John's hand.

"John!"

Hissing at him, she shot to her feet. He merely gave her that infuriatingly arrogant smile before he took the call intended for her.

"Hello?"

His voice was a husky whisper, a sensual brush to the senses.

And though anger had initially spurred her to actions, Rhue found herself caught between wanting to listen to him talk and wanting to relieve him of the phone that he had stolen.

"Ah yes, I remember you. Hello Owen."

Her decision solidified in that second, and Rhue made a grab for the phone, this time with success.

"Owen?"

Pushing her hair out of her eyes as she sat down, Rhue looked over her shoulder to see John watching her with interest, light blue eyes bright.

"Rhue?"

Owen's voice, sharp and suspicious tugged her attention back to the phone.

"Yes I'm here."

She heard her boyfriend sigh.

"Do I need to ask why he's picking up your phone?"

"He's nosey."

She heard John snort in amusement, and Owen seemed to take her comment as a joke rather than the truth it was.

"Rhue."

She could almost see him get angry.

"He's here for business."

"Since when do you hold business meetings at your apartment?" He challenged, well and truly mad."

"Since there was nowhere else I could talk without being listened to."

"Oh so it's a secret now is it?"

Rhue had confided in Owen about her stint in Section 31 following his admitting that he too had been in the employ of Starfleet's shadowy security branch. They had bonded over their mutual conflict, had spent many hours sharing and growing closer. But where Rhue had been able to leave, to walk away and begin anew as a teacher, Owen had been scarred by his encounter. Angry and confused, he had left to join a private security firm and spent many weeks out of contact as a result.

His distance had worried her, his anger had made her pause.

She had never told him about the other Augments, or the emails she was now receiving with increasing frequency. That was her own secret, her own burden.

"It's not a secret, Owen. But it wasn't something to just advertise either."

"I'm sure."

His words were curt, mocking and then silent as he cut their connection.

"Great."

Sighing, Rhue closed her eyes as she set the phone in her lap.

"Problems?" John's too innocent question grated on her nerves and she took several steady breaths before she trusted herself to speak.

"Remember how you said it felt like we had met before? That you felt like you knew me?"

The man beside her grew still, his face slipping behind an impenetrable mask.

"Well we haven't met…before," Rhue swallowed past the lie, "But I do know who you are. Who you _really _are."

The silence that followed was tense, near deafening as nothing and no one moved. Indeed, even Khan found himself taken aback. Caught between lying, which he hated with a passion, or admitting the truth he found himself at an unwinnable crossroads.

But as he looked at her, at that unquestioned sweetness, Khan wondered if she truly knew the danger she was getting herself into with her easy comment. Indeed, she had proven time and again to be a straightforward creature, but was she strong enough, smart enough to deal with the consequences that came with dealing with _Khan_?

She had to be bluffing, and he would be damned before he allowed himself to make her a target. He never wanted Marcus to know about her.

"You must be mistaken," Smiling tightly, John gently lowered his empty mug to the table, "My name is John Harrison; I've been a member of Starfleet for nearly six months."

He spoke the words slowly, with all the careful precision of one who had memorized and recited the words a thousand times as they try to convince themselves of the truth. But there was something else, a tension that had his throat working, his hands curling into fists.

_Was he afraid of telling her? Why was he lying?_

Part of her ached as he told her that fabricated story. She could still recall the angry prince back on Jupiter station and never before had that man and her guest seemed so removed from one another. _That _man would have never have lied; Khan would have spoken his heritage with pride, with arrogance.

But as she watched John, her heart ached, for him, because he was so clearly torn.

She blamed Marcus, had always believed him wrong. But for the first time she truly _hated _the Admiral, with more hatred than she realized she possessed. The man was soulless for doing this to another person, for diminishing a man who was easily his better.

"Ok then," she swallowed her hurt and pressed him "Where were you born?"

They continued like this for several minutes, each answer a painful lie that made them both suffer. And when she couldn't stand the agony another second she stood up. He stopped in an instant, looking as unhappy as she did.

"Rhue?"

She didn't look at him, but gently took his hand, tugged it until he stood up. And as she slowly pulled him around the coffee table, down the hall, she said not a word.

She let her studio speak for her.

It was larger than he might have expected, airy despite the otherwise modest size of the rest of her apartment. Dominated on two sides by large windows, the third was covered by a bookshelf that sagged with the number of books she had there.

On the empty walls were paintings and sketches, some large, some small, all of them rendered with meticulous attention. Landscapes mostly, a few of London, many more of San Francisco. But here and there were images he recognized from _his _time, of India and the kingdom that had been his home. It confused him as much as her skill, her artistry amazed.

"You _are _an artist."

He told her honestly, impressed for the first time since waking, and Rhue couldn't quite help the smile on her face as her ego swelled ever so slightly. She'd never really considered what she did a true talent which was why she practiced so much. But painting made her happy, drawing kept her balanced.

"What are these?"

She looked up in time to see the drawing pad in his hands, the sketchbook from Jupiter Station. Panicking through trying her best to appear otherwise she gestured to the canvas.

"I think you'll find your answer there."

And though she knew the canvas she had concealed beneath her painter's rag would raise more questions, so too would it help her answer the most important question. Thus, when his hands drifted away from the sketches and towards the painting, it was with mixed emotion that she allowed the painting its grand reveal.

Slowly, the cloth fell away, revealing first as dark splash of navy, a delicate whorl of lightest blue, and then the pale tan of skin, of _flesh._

She had started to work on the painting after Jupiter. Sleepless nights and restlessness had driven her to her studio, and when the careful thoughtfulness of watercolor had left her nothing but frustrated, she had turned to oil paint.

Vibrant, thick and tactile, it had provided her the medium her heart had yearned for. Mixing, thinning, correcting errors with the boldness of reckless abandon, she had submerged herself in that singular image for days and countless nights.

Even now she could remember the image that had haunted, that last memory of him on Jupiter Station. The picture of him she had held in her mind as she painted.

_"Goodbye Marla_."

She had been a woman possessed, and her painting revealed it all, though she doubted he would be able to tell.

"Is that-?"

He turned from the canvas, his face a myriad of emotions. And though he couldn't quite find the words, his face says it all as his brows lift, in confusion, in fear.

And for the first time in a very long time, John found himself comforted by the simple touch of a hand on his arm, a gentle squeeze.

"It's you, _Khan_."

Her words are scarcely more than a whisper, but her eyes are bright.

And though he still seemed so lost, the arms that wrap around her, the shudder of breath in his lungs tell her that her gift was enough.

"How did you know?"

His voice was muffled because his face was pressed into her hair, but she heard him clearly enough. And though her explanation was less truthful than it should have been, she could not help but be glad that he now knew.

"You look just like your picture in the history books."

He didn't have to feel alone any longer.

* * *

So what did you think about pacing and the relationship that is developing? Too fast? Too slow? Let me know! I'd love to hear from you!


	8. 08 - The Tourniquet

AN: Hey all! Here's another chapter just for you! I think I've finally settled into a balance with work and writing so expect about one chapter a week so they should come out fairly regularly. That being said, I do enjoy writing this one so I'll see if maybe I can squeeze in a surprise chapter every once in a while.

Thanks again - you guys have been SUPER!

Much love,

~Voi

* * *

Something went wrong.

It's a simple observation, perhaps an inane one, but it's all he can think of as he struggles to remain upright, to continue walking.

Something went _wrong_.

He knows this intellectually, can _feel _it physically as he staggers away from the blast zone, but even the acknowledgement of such an error cannot take away the agony of moment. There is no comfort in accepting what has just happened, just pain and the terrible ringing in his ears that makes the world swim in front of him.

London, his home for some months now, seems almost unrecognizable amidst the chaos of the blast, the darkness of night. And though he has managed to get some distance away, to weave between buildings in a direction that vaguely feels like safety, there is no helping the way he flinches as emergency vehicles scream past him on their way to the warehouse.

An old abandoned thing, the unused space should have remained untouched, unnoticed. But Khan had been smarter than that, and _known_, without a shadow of a doubt, that somewhere within its shadowed depths slept a member of his family, an unknowing pawn in a game of deadly politics.

The rescue should have been simple, _so very simple_, but something had gone terribly, irreversibly, wrong.

Closing his eyes he can still see the flames as they shot into the sky, can feel the singeing heat against his skin. But worst of all, he can recall with perfect clarity the moment when the roof came down and crushed the cryo-tube and the precious life within.

The image will forever be burned into his mind. But right now he can barely think past the ache of his body, can only barely look past the memory of that burning building to make out the shadowing figure of an approaching figure.

"Stay back."

He can barely enunciate, and his words come out in a slurred half-whisper as he stumbles backwards. His lungs still burn from the smoke, and his eyes blur with tears caused my more than toxic fumes.

"Oh my god, John!"

He knows that voice, has spent hours listening to that soft lilt and melodic cadence.

_Rhue._

In his chest his heart shutters with what must be relief, and though he has no idea how he has found his way to her, it feels _right _to let her gently direct him where she wishes. He will gladly follow into oblivion itself if she so desires.

"What happened to you?"

She sounds as stricken as he feels, and though the blood in his eyes obstructs his ability to see her expression, he can feel her hands linger on his cheek, on his bloodied brow. And though it's been years, _hundreds _of years since the last time he had bled and felt so much pain, a part of his revels in the very human state of his body.

Months of cold bloodless calculation, talking of war and dealing with Marcus have left him a deeply divided man. For Khan his world revolves around the promise of revenge, of retribution and the knowledge that somehow, someway Marcus will get the painful death he deserves. And because he is a warrior, Khan can deal with the constant tension, the shadow of impending war the landscape upon which he had once his kingdom. But for John, poor _human _John, the nights have been long and agonizing, spent alone with only his anguished conscience as company.

Every moment they are at odds, John and Khan, two identities trapped in the body of a single man. But for all of their complexity, it takes only a few quiet words of reassurance to resolve these two disparate beings, a few words from _her_.

Khan takes a strange sort of pleasure from Rhue's worrying, her gentle ministrations to his cuts and the patience with which she cleans the glass from his hands. And for once he makes no mention of his advanced healing ability. John finds himself without the words to tell her that he is ok, savoring the quiet contact with another human being who knows himunlike any other.

They all know this is about more than just physical cuts, physical pain.

Looking up from his bandaged hands, John watches as she disappears into the bathroom only to appear a second later with another bowl of water and a few more rolls of gauze. There are still black dots dancing across his vision, but the world has stopped the nauseating dance of roll and pitch.

"Feeling a little better?"

She makes a pained sound in the back of her throat as she gently touches his chin and turns him to look at her, dabbing the corner of his mouth with the cloth in her hand.

Bandages and water, old fashioned means for an old fashioned man.

He smiles ever so slightly at the thought.

"I think I got most of it, hmm?"

Settling in front of him on a small ottoman, she eyes his face critically as she brushes the hair from his brow, waits until he had made eye contact before she repeats herself.

"Are you feeling better John?" She uses his cover name with a frown, pauses before worrying aloud, "Can you hear me?"

He snorts though that small sounds makes his lungs hitch, forces him to cough harshly for a few painful seconds.

"I can hear you well enough."

His voice is a harsh rasp and quite unlike his usual silky tenor, but he responds nonetheless. And it is with pleasure that he sees her slump in relief.

They have been spending more time together since that day in her studio. And though he still does not quite know what _she _is getting out of their relationship, he cannot help how desperately he needs the contact, his desire for her simple company flourishing with an intensity that frightens him. That she so readily wants to spend time with him confuses him all the more.

To be alone now is almost unthinkable, and entirely undesirable.

"Do you think you'd be up for a little bit of food?" She smiles encouragingly at him as she makes her offer, "Maybe some soup?"

Rhue doesn't force the subject, she doesn't have to. And after helping him eat a little bit of soup she finds him a soft pillow and an even softer blanket. She had offered him the use of her bed, but exhaustion and any achy body had made additional movement unthinkable.

And though he tells himself that he will not give in, that he will remain awake for when she returns with a second blanket, he falls asleep the moment his head touches the pillow.

* * *

He wakes to the sound of raised voices, angry voices.

Threatening, they rouse him from sleep as every protective instinct in him comes to the forefront. He knows where he is, who is responsible for his care. Khan also knows that there is a heavy candelabra on the coffee table that could easily be turned into a serviceable weapon if need be.

His hands close around its base before the noise turns into proper words, understandable conversation. And he waits, breath slowing as he remains perfectly still, poised for his next move.

It's still dark outside, and the house is all the darker for it. But the voices penetrate all the sharper in the starkness of night.

"There will be consequences, Rhue!"

Male, aggressive and tinged with jealousy, the voice echoes all too easily in the short hallway. Owen, Khan has him identified in a heartbeat. And though he still hurts, his muscles throbbing in protest, Khan makes his way to the edge of the doorframe as he listens closer. He does nothing to hide his presence, but the two speakers are in such a heated exchange that neither notices his presence in the dark.

"You've said that twice already!"

Sharp but quiet, whispered by someone aware of a sleeping visitor, it is Rhue's voice that makes him pause. She sounds aggrieved, and he wonders just what he missed in those precious few moments before he woke.

"Well I'm saying it again because you don't seem to understand!"

"I understand more than you think," she sounds angry, and worse, hurt, "But just because you no longer believe in this relationship doesn't mean that I'm going to turn my friend out of my house."

"Oh so he's your _friend _is he?" Owen jeers at her, turns the word into something dirty, "Don't treat me like I'm stupid. That man has absolutely no interest in being your friend and you will find that out the hard way soon enough."

"John _is _my friend." She remains firm in her commitment, "I don't need to explain it further than that."

"Yeah well I hope your 'friend' is worth it."

Owen doesn't need to say more than that, and it's not long before the door closes behind him, the sharp click of the lock bidding the man a final goodbye. But Rhue remains there, pressed against the door for a long time afterwards. Lost in thought or perhaps emotionally torn, John has no idea what he should do, or indeed if he should _do _anything. The hall is quiet and dark, safe.

"He is."

Her words are loud in the silence, firm and resolute in their conviction. She may be alone, but he knows she is speaking to Owen, though perhaps she is saying it for her own benefit as well. The thought leaves him vaguely unsatisfied, though there is another nastier feeling that has his stomach twisted.

Lost in the dark, John stands there, swallowed in silence until he can suffer it no longer. He wants to say something, _do _something. But the precise course of his action remains elusive, at least until Rhue finally moves.

Vaguely he can make out her small silhouette as she crosses the hall to where her studio door is standing open. She disappears into the room, gone for only a second before a small light illuminates the crack she had left between door and jamb. Golden, the light pulls John closer, tugs him towards her.

But what he finds there makes him freeze, has him so filled with self-loathing that it takes all his control to not leave her apartment that very second.

Alone in the studio, with only that painting for company, she has no reason to sensor her thoughts, hide her emotions. And though he had grown to appreciate her as a woman of strength, of resolve and startlingly insight, he had to admit he had forgotten how very human she must be as well.

Seeing her half bent over in pain, there is no denying her distress. And though she makes not one sound, not a single whimper or cry he can tell from the way her shoulders shudder, the way her small body shakes that she is crying.

Had it been any other night he might have allowed her the solitude she needed. But on this night, with the emotions of the past few hours still lingering close to the surface the need to comfort and _be _comforted is strong enough to drive him towards her, to gently push open the door and cross the room to where she aches.

"John?"

Eyes wet with unshed tears, she looks at him with startled disbelief. And though he's not quite sure what he expects, does not want to think about it further than the here-and–now, there is no stopping the way he wraps his arms around her, pulls her tight to his chest and holds her close.

She feels so soft, so warm.

And he sighs as she relaxes against him in return, wraps her arms around his waist for a moment before he draws her to the large upholstered couch she has crammed in the corner between bookshelf and window. Long enough to hold even his impressive height, he settles himself against one of the sides to find her tucking herself beside him, arms returning to their place around his waist.

And though neither one of them says anything they share a small quiet smile before they both close their eyes and fall asleep. He sleeps well, submerged beneath the crushing wave of exhaustion and emotional turmoil, dreaming deeply of a life in which he had found happiness, and for just a moment longer Khan and John are one.


	9. 09 - The Warning

AN: Hello All! Here's an update, and one that actually surprised me when I was writing it. This was meant to be another sweet/fluffy chapter, but it actually got a lot more dramatic and plot-centric than I expected.

Hope you all enjoy - and as always feel free to tell me what you thought! Review and critiques welcome!

~Voi

* * *

She wakes up in his arms, slowly returns from obsidian nothingness to the warmth of his skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest against her back. Against the back of her neck she can feel the heat of his breath, the brush of his nose against her ear as he buries his face into the softness of her hair. And though she's gotten used to waking up in his arms, never will she take it for granted. Not when each day seems fraught with so much worry and tension. For him, and for her.

Turning around until she can look at him, she smiles as she notices the blankets beneath him. He's slept on top of the covers again. She doesn't doubt that he spent the night half frozen, and as she gently eases out of the bed she is sure to wrap the extra blankets around his still resting form. And it's all too easy to pretend, to brush the dark hair from his brow and escape into a fantasy of domestic bliss.

But there is that lingering shadow, the knowledge that between them stand lies of her own design, secrets she has kept from him for the sole purpose of making him trust her.

Wrapping herself in a soft wool sweater and making for the kitchen, she gets are far as the door before his voice stops her short. Rough with sleep, the rich sound makes her toes curl in her slippers as she turns to look at him and finds him watching her with half-lidded eyes.

"Where are you going?"

The way he asks the question makes her heart beat faster, but she manages to scrape enough composure to respond with a soft, "To make breakfast."

"I can do it." Raising up on one arm, he almost makes it to his feet before she's there at his side, pushing him down and stubbornly wrapping the blankets around him once more.

"Not this time, mister." She tries her best to look stern, but the bunny slippers and ducky-print sweater do her no favors. Still, Rhue manages to get him to do as she wants, pointing out that not only had he made breakfast the past few days, but that the night before had been a particularly late one; he had not appeared in her doorway until nearly two in the morning.

"I'll call you when it's time."

And without another word she disappears down the hall, humming softly as she arrives in the kitchen. Making breakfast itself is a relatively low stress task, and though Rhue she manages to do well enough she is neither the cleanest nor most efficient chef. By the time she has the pancakes piled high and ready for serving she has gone through two pans and three large mixing bowls, her face and apron streaked with all manner of flour, eggs and vanilla.

"Well that looks superb."

John sits down at the small table with a smile, eyes dancing as he takes in her floral apron, messy hair and pleased look on her face. She looks very sweetly domestic, with the bit of flour on her cheek and the kitchen smelling of pancakes and syrup.

Rhue for her part gets distracted the minute he sits across from her, caught off guard by the easy grace with which he settled himself. He has always been attractive to her, in a polished well-dressed sort of way. But on this particular morning, still dressed in his pajamas, he has a distinctly rumpled look that appeals to her on a different level entirely. And for a moment they lapse into a contented silence, passing the breakfast between them before John remarks on the spectacles perched on her nose.

"I was wondering when you were going to wear those glasses again."

He seems forever charmed by them, and Rhue is only too happy to oblige as she adjusts them primly, "I had to read the recipe, the font was a little small for me to read otherwise."

Grinning, he begins to eat before he can say anything. But Rhue knows that sly smile and sparkle in his eyes.

"What?" She is caught between wanting to know the reason for his good humor and feeling like she's being teased. Both have her smiling as she follows his lead and begins to eat.

He finally poses his question after having finished not one but three pancakes, each one topped with copious amounts of syrup and whipped cream.

"You needed a book to help you make pancakes?"

There is no missing the rumble of amusement in his voice, and Rhue flushes as she looks up from her meal.

"I like following the books, it reassures me that everything will work out as long as I follow the rules."

She points to the almost empty platter of pancakes, "I didn't hear you complain about them."

"They were very good." John concedes as the smile lingers on his lips, "Especially since you made them."

The comment has Rhue blush all the deeper, her face turning scarlet as she avoids his gaze, focusing instead on completing the last of her breakfast. And though she does her very best to avoid looking at him until the end of breakfast, the touch of his hand on her arm surprises her enough that she very nearly drops the plates in her hands.

"Rhue."

He sounds exasperated, but as she finally looks up at him, there is nothing but amusement in his brilliant blue eyes.

"Thank you for breakfast."

She wants to focus on his words, but the warmth of his large hands has her so distracted she can do little more than nod. Indeed she can barely think beyond the way it seems to burn straight through the thin material of her robe and nightgown.

"Rhue?"

His voice is softer now, lower, and he is standing so close she can all but hear it resonating in his chest. Moving slowly, she lifts her gaze until she is looking straight into his eyes, and though the intensity she finds there makes her flush once more, the feel of his other hand on the side of her face, stroking her cheek and tracing the curve of her lower lip makes it impossible to look away.

And though she _wants _for him to tilt his head down just a little lower, wants him to take his large hands and hold her close, she cannot find the confidence to ask.

"I'll see you tonight," he promises on a whisper as he smiles ever so slightly. And though he seems hesitant to leave, he is gone a moment later, disappearing in a flurry of work clothing and dishes.

Rhue spends the rest of the morning in a haze, her shower longer than usual as she runs through the morning's events, the feelings that she can no longer deny she has towards this man from the past. Languidly she gets ready, lingering on the scent of him in her room, the memory of his presence. And when at last she leaves for work she gets not ten feet before another hand closes around her arm, this one cold and hard as it steers her towards a black sedan with heavily tinted windows.

"Lieutenant McGivers?"

The chauffer opens his window to ask her, eyes staring dispassionately into her own as she nods and is shoved into the waiting seat.

She has never seen either the driver or the heavily muscled guard who settles beside her, but their identical Starfleet insignias do nothing to quell her panic. Instead, the cold black and silver uniforms threaten to drive her anxiety all the higher as she notices their gleaming pistols and Section 31 sunglasses.

Forcing the air into shuttering lungs is like trying to breathe underwater but she manages, hands curling into white-knuckled fists as she tries to look outside and see where they are taking her. They would have blindfolded her if they had intended to keep their location a secret, the fact that they chose not to only reinforces the prickling sensation that has the hairs on the back of her neck standing up on end.

And it is all too soon before she recognizes the Archives.

But before the car can smoothly slip in line with the other visiting transports, there is a flicker of light on the dashboard. A signal of some kind, Rhue doesn't even have time to ask before the car is changing course, drawing away from the city center with ever increasing speed.

They arrive a short time later at the very outskirts of the city, at a stately building where the words 'London Institution of Medicine' stand proudly in shimmering bronze lettering. She has never ventured far from the city, but as she escorted from car to shadowed interior, there is no denying the old-world grandeur, the appeal of the architecture despite her circumstances.

And for a second, a brief moment, she is taken in by the black and white tiling, the elegant vaulting that harkened back to an era of human history in which the heavens were intended to be welcomed in by towering barrel vaults and elaborate buttressing.

Those good feelings disappear the moment she catches sight of the man waiting for her, and her anxiousness congeals into something that feels very much like fear.

"Ah, Miss McGivers. Welcome."

The greeting is delivered with the coldest of smiles, the most calculating of gestures Admiral Marcus welcomes her to a small office, "Thank you for visiting me."

He does not put a hand on her, but her skin crawls at the expression on his face, the gleeful malice with which he sits down behind the desk.

"Admiral." She swallows down her fear long enough to take the offered seat, "What a surprise, I didn't expect to see you in England."

"Yes well," the man tilts his head as he looks at her, "An Admiral must appear where he is most needed. Isn't that right?"

The bad feeling returns as her stomach twists, "Sir?"

"I recently received a report that you have been in contact with our friend, Khan."

"John." Rhue corrects him instantly, instinctually, before freezing in horrified shock.

"Yes, the man known now as John Harrison." The Admiral looks grimly pleased, "My sources tell me that the two of you have really 'hit it off' so to speak."

He waits for her to admit it, but seems unfazed when she remains silent, stoic now that she has stumbled so spectacularly at the first.

"Very well. I am here to remind you, Lieutenant, that when you were introduced to this project that the rules stipulated with every sort of clarity that you were _not _to contact the subject upon his insertion into the general populace."

The continued silence has him frowning in displeasure.

"Were you, or were you not told to _leave _John Harrison alone?"

And when his comment brings yet more silence, he erupts with fury, eyes blazing as his hand makes hard contact with the desk in front of him.

"Are you hearing me, Miss McGivers? Or will I have to resort to other less-civilized means to attaining your cooperation?"

"I..." Rhue feels almost lightheaded with fear, but somehow managed to retain the façade of quiet control, "I don't know what you mean."

The screens in the office, the _wall _of them, fill a moment later with pictures of her, pictures of her _with John_. At the pier getting fish and chips, walking along London's streets, meeting for dinner. Moment after moment, memory after memory is laid bare as she is shown the horrifying truth, that Marcus knows, and there is nothing she can do to deny it.

"Now Lieutenant, under other circumstances I would have you court-martialed for not only lying to a superior officer but for your flagrant disregard for the rules of Starfleet as well."

Rhue remains frozen, fixated on the images, feeling her blood roar in her ears.

Marcus moves around his desk, his hands folded carefully behind his back, "And you would be thrown in prison, without a doubt you would find yourself locked away for what you have done."

"But-" And at this he smiles, a nasty calculating smile that never reaches the coldness of his eyes, "You have also ingratiated yourself with the one weapon so important that we cannot simply remove you without causing a stir. And _that _is your saving grace."

"He is a _man _not a tool." She may be terrified out of her mind, but Rhue will not, in any lifetime, refer to John as a weapon, as a machine of warfare.

But instead of sparking the Admiral's rage, there is a slashing grin on his face as he looks at her expectantly, "A man with all the desires of one, perhaps?"

There is no missing the suggestiveness of the question, the implication of it and Rhue feels nauseous as Marcus nods, accepting the new idea into his grand scheme.

"Very well then, Lieutenant, feel free to remain at _John_'_s _side. But you _will _be watched, and one day you _will _account for your past transgressions against Starfleet."

He says nothing more, merely nods to the door as he dismisses her. And though she is trembling, _shaking _with anger, fear and deeply rooted panic, Rhue crosses the room without a sound. She knows how ruthless the Admiral can be now, how manipulative.

She is almost at the door, almost _free, _when Marcus calls her a final time.

"Lieutenant?"

Fighting the instinctual urge to just run from the room, Rhue turns very carefully on her heel and faces the Admiral.

"Sir?"

There comes another image on the monitor wall, this time just one, duplicated over and over again; the image is of John, of _Khan, _escaping the wreckage of the warehouse.

"You have made a case that John Harrison is a man rather than weapon. If that is the case, Lieutenant, see to it that he does not make this very _human _mistake again."

Her hands are trembling so badly she has to clench them together behind her back to hide them.

"The explosion, Sir?"

"No, Lieutenant. Acting like _you_." The Admiral sniffed, "If he so much as looks in the direction of any more of the cryo-tubes we have recovered we will put. Him. Down."

The nails bite into the soft skin of her palms at his words.

"Sir?"

"Starfleet does not tolerate traitors, Lieutenant. And I will be damned before I lose control of this one-man weapon of destruction. It is in your best interest that you keep John Harrison controlled, Lieutenant. The consequences if you fail would prove to be…problematic to you both."

"Yes, I understand." She nods sharply before saluting and taking her leave, "Thank you, Sir."

The ride back to London seems to take forever.

* * *

"Are you thinking about Owen again?"

It's evening, nearly five hours since her meeting with Marcus at the medical institute, five hours to contact Calvin to set up a meeting for later and try to salvage what is left of her self-control. She doesn't know how convincing she can be, to pretend that everything is ok, but as she turns from the window to where Khan was standing, her heart aches. The events of the morning's breakfast seem to have happened a lifetime ago and she misses that rosy happiness that has since disappeared.

"Just a bit."

The lie suits well enough as an explanation, but this time Rhue finds it just a little harder to say, to force past frozen lips and speak convincingly enough for them both. Even now she can hear the hollow ring to her words, to her lie. And she can feel her throat close up with guilt and shame when John settles down beside her, tugs her close.

"That man was a fool."

Rhue looked up at him with a sad smile, "He's known me far longer than you have."

Khan shrugged, "That may be true, but he does not know you better."

"And you think you do?" She teased him halfheartedly, fighting with her emotions as she leans her head against his shoulder. It's a struggle not to do the right thing, to _tell _him. But she cannot lose his trust now, not when she is responsible for keeping him safe, keeping him _alive_.

"I am telling you that I know you better, because I am better than he could ever hope to be."

She gave him a sidelong glance, "Better at what?"

And that was when hesmiled, nudged her ever so gently as he bent closer, lips brushing her cheek as he whispered in her ear.

"Everything."

And though the words had meant to amuse, Rhue cannot stop the lone tear that drips down her cheek.

Calvin had said once that he believed her to be strong enough for the task, to free John from the control of the Admiral and see the humanity of a man who so many others called a weapon.

But as the daylight fades, she can't say she believes him, not when so much of who and what she is has become muddied with lies.


	10. 10 - The Stress

AN: And the story continues! Thanks again to all my readers, I couldn't have done this without your encouragement and kind word! Also, a big thanks to those of you who have pointed out the errors in previous chapters - I am currently working with a beta reader to try and get those fixed too!

I hope you all enjoy this one, I'm finding that the story of Rhue & Khan are taking me places even I hadn't planned so we'll see what happens.

As always, feedback in all it's forms is welcome!

Thanks again,

~Voi

* * *

_Ericcson._

It's been nearly six weeks since the incident with the warehouse and the pod but Khan has only just learned the name of the life that was lost. And whether it is that it took him so long, or that something inside has died, the information barely phases him.

Ericcson.

He can recall the image of the man with perfect clarity, can see the dark hair and even darker eyes, the hearty laughter and strength of the man who had been both friend and confidante. The loss of such a man should have driven him to anger, should have induces a searing rage to trump all others. It would have been no surprise, the when so many smaller things had done so already. But instead of anger there is just the icy numbness of failure.

So many months of trying and still he feels ineffectual, unable to control the situation in which he finds himself. And the tension is building, just beneath the surface. Khan exhales slowly as he collects himself, carefully locks away the little anger he has and waits.

And he has time, to wait, to ponder. Impatient and rash though he can be, he _knows _his lifespan is considerably longer than a usual persons, than _Marcus. _The thought brings a smile to his lips, maybe it would be a sweeter revenge to wait until Marcus had grown old before exterminating all of the man's family, to make him watch as his legacy died around him. Let him finally understand the agony of watching family die by the hands of a killer without conscience.

Idly he wonders if killing Marcus' daughter would be a satisfying balance to Ericcson's death. He has killed enough people to know that the death of one person does not provide relief for another, but peace of mind?

Khan smiles slightly, by the time he gets his chance he doubts that there will be anything but revenge driving him. It will take a great tempest, of anger or rage, to break his icy control, but it _will _happen.

It's just a matter of time.

Looking out onto the London skyline, watching as the lights flared to life amidst the deep navy shadows of the evening Khan takes another steadying breath. Big Ben rings out a moment later, signaling the eighth hour of the evening.

It was getting late.

The realization has him looking around the apartment with a frown, Rhue was nothing if not a creature of habit. She should have been back several hours ago.

And because concern and worry has never sit well with him, John pushes himself off the couch, hands straying to pluck the empty classes from the coffee table. He has them washed, dried and in the cupboard a moment later.

It was a little thing, the cleaning, but Rhue had appreciated it the first time he had done it and with his thoughts being as they were he needed to do _something_.

He found the sketchbooks as he was straightening the studio.

Unremarkable cold-press paper bound in plain black leather, there are two of them in total and both are filled. Flipping through them as is his habit, he smiles at the first several pages, sketches from around the apartment, the park they frequent and even the little café they visit after work. But as the pages go on, the content shifts from environment to people. Portraits of all kind, older people, children, she's captured them all in charcoal, pencil and pen.

It's the last few pages that make him pause.

Portraits, some quick sketches others more thorough investigations, all of them are of him, of _Khan_. But not as he is now.

Sketches of him bandaged, sleeping, shouting; they are his many faces, his many facets.

But he's not the only one in those last pages. And there is something vaguely familiar about the other two people there, a man and a woman, both rendered with exquisite accuracy.

_But who are they? _

He stares at them, searching for answers until the door to the apartment beeps sharply, signaling her return. Turning to look at the clock John see it's nearly nine in the evening.

"I'm back!"

She sounded exhausted, and as John peaked out of the studio he watched as she pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes as if to ease their ache. And though it was still fairly dark in the hallway, there was no missing how pale she way, how gaunt she appeared. Something had happened at work.

"Long day?"

He leaves the sketches where they are and contents himself with wrapping his arms around her, quietly drawing her close until her head is resting against his chest.

She exhales in appreciation, and as her arms wrap around his waist she replies to his question, "Too long."

And though he can't say why, there is something in the way she responds that has him pulling her closer, holding her until the evening chill on her skin is gone and she feels warm again.

"How was your day?" She looks up at him with a small frown, reaching up to brush the dark hair from where it fell into his eyes, "Everything go ok?"

He shook his head, "Dinner first, I think we could both use it."

Nodding, she follows him to the kitchen, but he stops her before she can pull out a pot or pan.

"I brought dinner," he motioned to where the little containers of food were waiting, "Thought we could both use a day off."

And that small gesture is enough to make her smile at least for a moment. And as they work together to fill their plates and settle down across from one another in the couch, the silence is filled with a comfortable companionship.

But by the time he's finished with his meal and ready to put his dish away John looks up to find an unpleasant surprise. Rhue has barely touched her meal, and as a woman of healthy appetite, the fact that she seems so completely out of sorts makes him worry.

"Rhue?" He takes the plate from her when she can't eat any more, but remains close.

"I went to the hospital at the edge of the city." There was something a little off about her smile, but he can't quite put his finger on it. It's the third time she's visited the place, the third time she's mentioned it.

"Remind me the name of it again?"

"It's called the London Institute of Medicine," She turned to gaze out the window, looking like she was miles away, "That's where they have the special cases, the ones with illnesses and injuries that even our most modern medicine cannot treat."

It sounds quite unlike any place John imagined she would be called to teach at and he says as much, "Was there another special lecture for the patients there?"

She shakes her head, hands twisting in her lap. Silent for a long moment, she winces before responding, "I was there as a specialist."

Gesturing around to the age of her own building she elaborated, "Architectural restoration dated the place to within my area of expertise. I was called in to make sure that the updates they were doing things were as true-to-source as possible."

"Sounds intriguing, both the hospital and the building itself." He smiles, "Did you have a good time?"

"It was…" Rhue swallowed loudly, and as John looked up from the plate he was washing off, he caught sight of the tears in her eyes.

"Rhue?"

He's moved from the kitchen to where she is seated in the split second before her smile crumbles and the truth of it comes out.

"It was _awful_."

The first jagged sob has his chest clenching in anger, in concern. As she repeats it, he pulls her into his arms, sheltering her from the invisible specter that was driving her to tears.

"_Awful_."

And John knows she's not talking about the building, or even the restoration, but something else entirely. He only wished she would tell him.

* * *

Khan's standing in the Admiral's office the next morning, expression bland, manners coldly civil. They have spent the past hour going over weapon configurations for a new type of ship they had begun calling _sovereign-class_, large war-time machines optimized for small crews and large weapons arrays. In the past this project would have been his obsession, the culmination of hours of intensive thought and planning. A tool of war built in an era of destruction, the creation of such a thing right now, in an era of unprecedented peace, feels _wrong _and Khan cannot help but feel the moral and ethical stains on his conscious as if they were real, physical, things.

"Harrison?"

Khan looks over from where he was inspecting the final ship plans, the blue prints that have already been sent to the construction team somewhere around the Jupiter space dock. Usually the Admiral would dismiss him after they had gone over ship details or technological advancements, but today it seemed there was another part of the agenda.

"I need you to go to Edinburgh."

Marcus has been quieter in the past few days, but increasingly more smug as well. Khan is not one for speculation, but the feeling of being disadvantaged makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle in awareness.

"Sir?"

His hands are folded carefully behind his back, and as the image of a woman flashes onto the screen John does his best to remain unaffected. But just as there was something vaguely familiar with the sketches he had found in Rhue's apartment, so too is this woman familiar.

"There's been talk of a coup, and people have been gathering under the banner of this woman, Genie Tavish. Ironically, she's been the leader of a pacifist motion sweeping through Star Fleet but it sounds like for the right reasons she'll move against me. I need her gone before the next Captains Meeting in two weeks."

Outlining a simple mission of covert information gathering and assassination, Marcus continued until he began discussing the possibility of prototype security systems.

"Captain Tavish is head of Starfleet's R &D so her influence is tied very strongly to the items she creates, or…" Marcus flipped through several images and stopped on one of a single glowing cryotube, "The items she has attained."

Khan felt the breath still in his lungs but willed his attention to return unerringly to Marcus.

"Do you need me to remove the device from her control?"

"No." The admiral gestured back to the woman, "I need you to remove the threat she poses. Starfleet cannot have Klingon sympathizers in the upper echelons of leadership if we hope to move against the threat when it arises."

Gesturing to the image of the cryotube, Marcus continued, "I will have a team standing by. When you complete your mission I will have them remove the tube from the marina building that Tavish has been using as her base."

There was something calculating in Marcus' stare, a quiet sort of sneer that sounds like a challenge. And though every intelligent part of him tells him to ignore the cryotube, to let this one go, he knows he can't.

Because he's promised himself that never again will he suffer a failure, and never again will he lose another member of his family, like Ericcson.

* * *

Rhue and John arrived in Edinburgh four days later under the premise of a weekend vacation. Under normal circumstances Khan would have preferred to keep life and work separate, to have maintained a respectful distance between the two spheres of his life.

But Rhue had been deteriorating at such a rate that she was causing him to worry even when she was not around, and that was unacceptable. In the days since the last visit she had become increasingly distant, pale and could barely seem to muster the strength to eat more than a few mouthfuls. He could tell she's trying, but there was _something _that continued to plague her despite their combined efforts to work through it.

In the end, Khan had resorted to the only thing he could think of; leaving London entirely.

It was _John_'s idea really, a decision borne of concern and worry. The mental suggestion had, one night, eventually been asked more outright and whether it was the look on her face or his gut instinct, the decision was made then and there.

"Watch the overhead."

Warning her as he gently drew her along the dim corridor, John paused only to grab their small suitcase before they stepped off the train and onto the platform. The decision to take the train had been his, another attempt to sooth and relax his traveling companion.

It had started working almost immediately.

The four hour ride had been a return to normalcy as each mile away from London had seemed to ease the weight from Rhue's shoulders, relieved the tension of her mind. At first is had been a slight increase in her color, then a soft sigh as she rested her head against his shoulder. By the end of the first hour she had returned enough to her usual self that they had managed to chat about all things they wanted to see while the trip lasted.

There had been laughter.

And they had passed the last two hours curled up together beneath the thick tartan blanket, face to face, hands threaded together as they drifted slowly to sleep. She had smiled, _truly _smiled for the first time all week when they had pulled into the station and seen nothing but torrential train and deep grey clouds.

The small cottage they arrived at, an old fashioned rental with wooden roof and stone work was something out of an old novel, and though inside was small, Khan had to bend down slightly to get through the door, it was in all other aspects charming.

"This is _wonderful_."

Her praise warmed him, made him grin like the young man he had never really been allowed to be. And as she stowed their clothing in the old-world dresser and pulled a second blanket from the linen closet John savored the quiet peacefulness that settled over them so easily now that they were away from the business that was London.

"It's still fairly early," glancing at the clock John ducked into the bedroom, "Would you be up for a walk and then maybe some dinner?"

It was well after dark that the two of them returned to the cottage and began to get ready for bed. Exhausted from the trip but feeling more optimistic than they had in a while, Rhue and John lingered in the living, sipping hot drinks as they took turns with the shower.

"That was a great walk," sighing as she leaned against the couch, Rhue smiled as John exited the bathroom.

"The shower was even better after all that rain," scrubbing at his hair until it dried, John settled next to her, "Did you manage to warm up alright?"

Rhue was wrapped up in a large blanket as well as a fluffy red robe and matching slippers, and she grinned impishly as she noticed the matching robe he was wearing.

"I think so."

"And you're feeling better?" He didn't need to clarify what he was talking about, and Rhue's grin softened into smile as she quietly nodded, hand gently brushing the soft wool at her knee.

"I'm sorry that I've been so out of it lately. I needed to get away from London…from work."

He shook his head, he hadn't asked her because he wanted an apology. But it was soothing on his conscious to know she was ok, that somehow, someway, he had done the right thing for her.

It was a small victory in what was otherwise an existence of multiple failures, each more painful than the last.

"Are _you_ ok?"

The sensation of her small hand settling on his own larger one made him jerk back to reality, and his eyes sought hers out in the dark, found them bright and unblinking as she looked up at him. The low red glow of the fire seemed to glint on the strands of her hair, the room smelling faintly of her soap and the deeper scent of charcoal. His attention narrowed as she moved, focused on her as she gently rose to her knees beside him.

"John?"

Her voice was low, warm, and his eyes slid to her lips for a moment before she hesitated.

"Could I…" she stopped short, suddenly looking away as her cheeks flooded with color.

And though he had meant to respond with all practicality and decorum, to be a gentleman, there was no stopping the way his hands curved around her back, settled on the slope of her waist and drew her closer. Lips parting, her eyes slid shut as he tilted his head down ever to slightly, nose brushing he cheek as she raised her face up towards him.

_"John_."

One kiss, he promised himself, trying to hold on to the reins of his control even as his hands slid higher, _only_ one.

The brush of his lips against her sent lighting racing down his spine, a lick of fire followed close behind as her lips parted beneath his own and her arms came up around his shoulders.

Hot, sweet, one of his hands fisted in her damp hair and drew her deeper as she arched into him, making the blood thunder in his ears. And it was so easy to lose himself in the taste of her, to give himself over to the sensation of that kiss and the soft sounds she made in his arms. But he _was _a gentleman, a man of principle and rules.

_Just one._

He jerked back with a groan, lips tender, breath coming out in great shuddering gasps as he held her at arm's length. Hair mused from his hands, face flushed with desire, she had never looked as beautiful as she did at that moment.

"Rhue, I…"

It's hard to think, harder still to enunciate what he wanted to tell her, but she silenced him with a press of her fingers to his lips, smiling shyly as she did so.

He was an old-fashioned man, and she was a woman who had loved and studied old-fashioned things all her life. She didn't need him to speak to know what he was going to say.

And there in that small cottage, caught between the glow of the fireplace and the warmth of her knowing smile, Khan learned what John had known all along.

There would never be another Ericcson.

But even more than that, there would never again be a woman quite like Marla McGivers.

* * *

Name Trivia - the name Ericcson is taken from one of the books about Khan on Ceti Alpha VI and was the name of the man Harulf Ericcson who through use of the Ceti Eels led to the original Marla McGivers death. Ericcson is also one of the names that was tossed around before the name 'Khan' was settled on for the series.


	11. 11 - The Message

AN: Hello All!

I apologize for the lack of update these past few weeks, I had family over and playing host (as well as working) took a lot more energy than I had anticipated. I hope you can all forgive me, and continue to give this fic some love. I'm very excited for the next chapter, but this chapter is a nice fluffy look at our favorite couple at sunset.

As always, thank you to everyone for your support and helpful comments. I AM looking for a second (and maybe third?) beta reader to help me with this story so if you would be interested please let me know.

You guys have been terrific - hope you enjoy this next chapter!

~Voi

* * *

_"You are to watch him for us, Lieutenant. Keep him in line. And if there is a repeat of what happened in the warehouse then rest assured that we will put him down. We have no room for traitors in our ranks, and I do not tolerate those that stand in my way."_

It is an unusually sunny day in Edinburgh but even the memory of those words have the strength to send icy shivers down her spine, freezes the tips of her fingers. Yet, not a minute passes before warmth floods her hands as long fingers wrap themselves around her much smaller ones.

"Cold?"

The question is at once amused and concerned. And though she cannot quite identify it, there is a glint of _something _in his eye.

"Not when you do that." Looking shyly up at him Rhue squeezes his hand gently and smiles all the wider when his lips quirk in response, "You are very warm."

"I did tell you I was better at everything. Warm hands are just one part of it." There's a touch of arrogance in his voice, but there is also an easy camaraderie and affection between them now as they walk down the street, hands laced together.

"Mmmhmm."

She laughs when he gives her a look, his brow arched at her skepticism.

"You believe there is something I am lacking?"

Rhue is sure to pause just long enough to irk him before she shakes her head, voice lilting as she teases him.

"Oh I don't know about that. But maybe…"

"Maybe?"

John sounds appropriately offended, and he stops in the middle of the street, tall frame towering easily over her petite form. And though they are both grinning in good humor John manages a somewhat convincing scowl though it is diminished somewhat by the fact that their hands remained tightly clasped together.

"Well?"

She can practically feel the vibrations of his chest as he carefully enunciates the word, drags it out until it seems to hum in the air around them. The sensation of standing so close to him has her brain all but turning to mush, her cheeks pinking ever so slightly in pleasure.

"Rhue?" Blue eyes look down at her in wry amusement, "Are you the sort of woman to insult a man's pride and then leave him no way to convince you otherwise?"

Gently brushing the back of her hand with his thumb John grins wickedly as he whispers, "Or am I driving you to distraction?"

He knows her all too well, and his words have her flushing nearly scarlet. Flustered and with little time to think of a proper response, Rhue points instead to shop gaily festooned in all manner of Scottish and English memorabilia, "I have yet to see you wearing something like that. So how can I possibly know if you are better looking?"

The challenge has them both grinning like fools. And before either one of them can make mention of the practicality of such things they are inside, picking through all manner of bagpipes and kilts.

The shop owner, a sweet elderly woman with a shock of white hair greets them pleasantly but otherwise leaves them to their perusal. Smelling of antiques and wool, Rhue is entirely at home as she gently picks through the stack of tartan.

"What do you think of this?" Lifting a long bolt of tartan, Rhue runs her finger over a small wrinkle before turning to look over her shoulder, "I think the blue color would suit you nicely."

John is at the other side of the shop, examining the pint glasses with little Scottish flags emblazoned on them. But he seems to know exactly when she needs him, and he turns to her just in time to see her lift the tartan like a banner.

"Yes?"

"What do you think? Nice right?" Rhue looks pleased with herself and her expression has John feeling indulgent. Crossing the store towards her, he only has time to touch the soft material before they are interrupted by their host.

The kindly old shopkeeper smiles knowingly as she take's John's hand, "Och I can help ye wi' that love, come along."

And though the two of them disappear behind the dressing room curtain, the woman pops her head out to reassure her waiting guest, "I'll have him good an' ready in no time, lass."

"Well, what do you think?"

It takes the combined efforts of John and the owner nearly ten minutes before the curtain opens. Stepping out into the open John opens his arms, his expression is one of wry amusement.

"Better?"

Jane Austen could keep her Mr. Darcy with his lovely white shirt; Rhue was more than content with the picture John made in tartan cloth. And though John claimed he was not of British stock, and certainly not Scottish descent, the look appealed to her.

"Well, Mr. Harrison. I do believe you clean up nicely. But…"

Smiling impishly at him from her spot on a low settee, she made a little gesture with her finger, "Turn all the way around. I have to be absolutely sure."

He does so, turning slowly on his axis, looking at once amused and exhasperated.

"I quite like the way you look in a kilt." Tilting her head she eyes the socks, "Those too."

"So then, I _am _better." The triumph in his voice, on his face, nearly makes her laugh aloud and John's smugness seems to only grow, "I knew I would be. Now, to get out of these clothes."

He disappears for a moment to change only to reappear at her side not long after, settling the dark blue tartan around her shoulders as he smiles. But this smile is not the amused grin of their playful afternoon, nor even the sleepy smile with which he had greeted her that morning. Instead, this one is one of absolute contentedness, and he presses a soft kiss to her brow as he tugs her closer, still wrapped in the cloth, in _his _colors.

"I rather like the look of you in tartan," Tucking a stray hair behind her ear John's finger drifts lower to skim the fabric that lays against her neck touching skin and fabric together, "Quite lovely."

"Warm too." Sighing softly, she presses a chaste kiss to his cheek and then gestures to where their hosts is arranging small crochet images of the Royal Mile against the wile, "I'd like to get something like that for my mother, she'd enjoy it immensely."

And though she means to get up and take a look at the little works of string, she lingers there, reveling in the warmth of his arms, the distinct scent of him. Indulgent as it is, she wonders if she will ever get enough of these little moments, of simply being beside him.

Looking up at him, she traces the contours of his face with her eyes, takes in the dark wave of his hair and the lush fringe of lashes that frame such piercing blue clarity.

_I think I love you_.

She has thought the words nearly a dozen times since she has woken, more than a hundred since their arrival in Scotland and each time the words are easier to say, at least, they are in her head. She's tried saying them. In the mirror of the bathroom, quietly forming each piece, the words are a little slower to come but they do eventually find their way past her lips and into open air.

_I think I love you_.

She's known it for a while now though she can't say when. Maybe she always had, and it just took Scotland to show her. And though she has lied so many times about so many things, she cannot lie about this, not to herself and not to him. She only hopes he does not ask her now, because she is not sure she is brave enough yet to tell him.

But she will.

Someday, if they are both lucky to escape from Marcus, she will tell him the truth. About everything. She just has to keep him safe until then. How, she does not yet know, but she will. She _has _to. Her heart refuses any other course of action, any failure. And so she will protect him as best as she can, even if those lies will come back to haunt her.

Their time in Scotland had caused that shift in resolve, has shown her just how deeply she cares for this man. How important he is to her.

"Did you still want to look at those pieces?"

He shifts beside her, easing his arms ever so slightly so that she can go. Sighing, Rhue debates a longer stint at his side before she finally does propel herself to her feet and go to where the little crocheted images are hanging.

The message comes in while she's examining a particularly delicate piece depicting Edinburg Castle, the beeping noise muffled from its place in her pocket. There are only three people who have her number, and even fewer who bother to leave a message. Under normal circumstances she would have checked her phone, and indeed she pulls out to look at its glowing screen. But before she has a chance to listen to the message, a hand gently touches her arm.

"Did you find one?" John gestures to the framed bit of art, a smile on his lips, and the brightness of it diverts her attention from her phone.

"I thought this one might work," She points to the castle, "Pretty right? Mom would get a kick out of it. She has a thing for castles."

He chuckles and the deep sound makes her flush, "Then it sounds like the ideal gift indeed. Come on, there is still one more place we should visit before it gets dark."

She pays for the small hanging in short supply, stowing the piece in her purse before turning to where John is patiently waiting, arms full of that blue tartan wrap.

"Shall we?" He offers her his arm as they exit, and as they step fully into the cool air of the late afternoon he drops the now-familiar tartan shawl around her shoulders.

"_John_."

Her hand touches the soft wool, and she smiles slightly as she shakes her head, "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

He looks at her with a small quirk of his lips, "Besides, this way you won't be cold either."

He leads her across the street before he glances at her again, "Unless of course, you wish to lodge a protest?"

"No, of course not." She smiles all the wider, "It's lovely. Thank you."

And together they walk, arm in arm, towards the sparking blue water of Edinburg's marina.

By the time they get to the waterfront the sun is sitting on the very edge of the horizon, the light nearly orange as it bids a final farewell. Glinting of polished metal and the more luxurious varnish of the antique ships, the scene is as close to postcard perfect as Rhue has ever seen.

"Isn't it lovely?" Inhaling the salt of the ocean air, she smiles at the light spray that washes over them both, "I used to go to the waterfront in San Francisco and just boat watch. In the mornings, with the fog and the sunrise…"

She leans against the railing with a sigh, "It was beautiful, but this is so much nicer."

Saying nothing as he walks beside her, John merely gives her a quiet little smile. He seems distracted somehow, preoccupied, as he looks around at the large concrete bunkers that line the water.

And though Rhue has not the slightest idea of what he is looking for, she does not mind their quiet moments. It is comforting simply to have him close, reassuring to know he is there beside her.

Time means little, and they walk for nearly an hour before the wind picks up and sweeps the cool ocean air inland. Sharp enough to needle, Rhue tugs the tartan tighter around her shoulders but otherwise makes no comment. There is still daylight left and she would rather remain outside as long as possible.

"Still cold?"

The tartan around her shoulders is doing a lovely job, but Rhue can't resist shaking her head as she looks back at him. Smiling all the while, her expression softens as he draws her into his arms and tugs her into the warm shelter of his long coat.

And there with the last glints of sunshine they share a kiss. As chaste as the one by firelight, this one is a soft meeting of mouths, a kiss that has her melting against him as his arms circle her waist. Sweet, tender, she can hear the crash of the waves in her ears but all Rhue can think about is the man in her arms and the very strange sensation of being suddenly adrift, lost in what seems to be a sea of complete, all consuming, happiness.

_I think I love you_.

One day, she will find the words, the courage, to tell him.

Rhue wakes up in the middle of the night with the knowledge that something is wrong. Grasping blindly in the dark, her hand touches the cool sheets beside her and the sensation makes her frown.

_Where is he? _

Sitting up, Rhue strains to see in the inky black and she fumbles with the small bedside lamp until the dim light springs to life and casts the room in rich golden tones.

"John?"

It was unlike him to get up in the middle of the night. Weeks of sleeping beside him had shown her that he was a creature of habit, prone to mumbling in his sleep but little else. The time they had spent in Scotland had only made him a more constant bed partner and she had spent so many nights lying beside him that it surprises her she noticed him absence so very late.

"John?"

She exits the bedroom to look around the hallway and the equally dark kitchen. There is no sign of him, only the lingering sensation of loss, and as she finishes looking around the unused second bedroom her heart gives an unpleasant jerk in her chest.

Something is not right.

She gets as far as the foyer before she realizes what is missing. The coat rack is one coat short and his shoes are gone as well.

And the pieces finally click together with a sudden terrible clarity.

Stumbling backwards, she runs blindly towards the bedroom where her phone is waiting for her. Blood pounding in her ears, hands trembling and pale, part of her already knows what she will find but still she punches the power button to finally see who it was who had contacted her.

Calvin.

The message from that afternoon is waiting, and as she accesses it she feels nearly nauseous at what she hears. Calvin had tried to warn her, to try to prevent what was at this very moment her reality.

But perhaps this time, because of her own lack of caring, it is a warning come too late.

There is another pod, another member of Khan's family _here,_ in Edinburg. But instead of an abandoned warehouse it is in a fortified bunker, and instead of minimal security it is safeguarded by some of the admiral's favored security.

It is not an opportunity to recover a loved one, it is a trap. A _test_ by a suspicious admiral who seems to know all too well the precarious line Khan walks. A test to see if _she _can truly stop him and keep him on his leash.

The pod is the bait in a cage, and John is headed straight towards it.

She does not even make it half way through the call before she takes off once more, racing out the door and into the night. And though she has no plan and even less courage Rhue heads towards the marina. She has to stop him.

Heart lodged in her throat, she tears down the street until her lungs are burning and her body aches.

She has to stop him in time.

She _will _stop him.

Failure is not an option.


	12. 12 - The Argument

AN: Hello all - it's been a while, but I promise I am still working on this fic. I apologize for how short this chapter is, but given the level of drama in it, I felt it really needed to stand alone. Interestingly enough, it was this mental image that had me start this fic several months ago, and it was nice finally being able to write it out.

Also - I am still looking for some beta readers/editors so if you know anyone or are interested please let me know!

I hope you enjoy and thanks again for the support!

~Voi

* * *

It's started raining again.

Pouring actually, but since they are in Scotland Rhue figures it is nothing out of the ordinary.

What _is _unusual is John, or rather Khan. It's been a while since she's seen that particular look on his face. Murderous rage, she sees it most in his eyes, those intense blue-green irises that frame pupils so sharp they look like shards of obsidian.

He has not said anything since she dragged him away from that trap, had caught him with one hand on the door. And though part of her wonders why it has taken him so long to get to the marina, the other, more immediate worry, is his silence.

He has not said a word.

Not. One. Word.

But she can feel it building between them, the confusion, and the anger. She's played her hand, and only John knows that that means for them both.

The silence is stifling and she very nearly chokes on it when John makes another turn towards some unknown destination. Down a dark alley, around yet another corner until they arrive at the front door of a dark grey down house that stands desolately against the torrential rain.

Staring up at it, Rhue gets the strangest sensation of déjà vu. She knows she seen this building before, somewhere. But as the rain continues to drench her unprotected head and shoulders and the wind whips all the more sharply, she has little choice but to follow him inside.

Walking more slowly as she enters the house, with each successive step, a sense of dread begins to build in the pit of her belly.

Something is very wrong.

Outside the rain has turned into a full storm and the lighting casts sharp dramatic shadows on the rooms they pass. And though each rumble of thunder does not make her jump, the sharp flashes of light make her stomach tighten as they catch on John's ever silent silhouette.

Rhue doesn't dare turn on the lights, prevented by the increasingly more shrill blaring of instincts that has her slowing even more as she follows him up a second flight of stairs.

In the end it's the wall of photographs that jogs her memory. Images of a child, of a woman at all stages of her life. The daughter who is the light of her mother's life.

The realization comes just as she reaches the top most landing and is confronted with the woman's slumped body.

"Genie!"

Half stumbling over the mess of broken furniture, she is at the woman's side in an instant, checking for a pulse that she will never find. The explanation of what happened is all around her, in the devastation of this second floor, in the distinct marks of phaser fire. But there is no blood, and the cleanliness of the situation makes her skin prickle.

She hasn't seen the woman in nearly a year, not since they had worked together on Jupiter station; not since Section 31, not since _Khan_.

And in that moment she has her answer, knows exactly what happened and by whom.

"You killed her."

Turning to look at him, she doesn't need to repeat her question, the answer is there in the cold glitter of his eyes, the complete lack of compassion in his expression.

"She was a traitor."

It's the first thing he's said to her since the marina, and though she knows he's responding to her question, she doesn't doubt that he's talking about her too.

"A traitor to whom?"

Getting to her feet, Rhue feels her throat tighten in anger, "It's not Starfleet. They don't execute traitors."

"The worst sort of traitors are of the personal kind."

His eyes seem to almost glow in the darkness, and he does not blink as she takes a very deliberate step towards him.

"Marcus, then."

And though she's never really been angry at him, she is _disgusted _by how unmoved he seems to be by the whole situation. Disgusted and confused, because the man she had tried so hard to save and keep safe seemed so entirely removed from this remorseless killer that stood before of her.

"You killed her because Marcus called her a traitor? You didn't even know her!"

She's flush with anger, her intense worry for him turned to a furious rage that has her near shaking.

"She was a pacifist!"

"She might have been a pacifist but don't think her work was innocent." He snarls at her then, the first real expression of anger he's ever directed at her, "And though I can't say I knew her, I know _you _well enough Ms. McGivers, more at this moment than perhaps any others."

And slowly, so slowly he leans down to look at her.

"You knew her. You _worked _with her."

He laughed, a low humorless sound that chilled her down to the bone.

"Did you know that it was your own handiwork that made me realize that you were betraying me? I recognized her from those sketchbooks in your studio. You really did capture her likeness, _very _good job, Rhue."

He says her name nastily, and the sound of it makes her eyes prickle with tears as she struggles to control herself.

"All the paintings, the sketches…"

"Were of you back on Jupiter station," She whispered, "Yes, I was there when you were thawed out, when they brought you back to life."

"And you never bothered to tell me." His expression is back to the dispassionate mask he uses to guard his feelings.

"There was never a good time for it. What was I supposed to do? Bringing it up was never going to be a pleasant experience. Was only going to damage the friendship we were building."

"You _lied _to me!"

His mask shattered with such a ferocity that it has her stumbling backwards as he rounded on her.

"You've been working with Marcus since the first! All those inane questions, those meetings at the Medical Institute – what were they? Some experiment to see if I could be controlled by your tears?!"

He is roaring now, absolutely furious as he backs her up and slams his hand against wall by her head.

"How _dare _you call yourself my friend!"

"I would have said anything, done_ anything_ to keep you safe!" Pale and tear-streaked though she is she has to try and reason with him.

"Marcus is using you, using _us_, can't you see that?"

He sneered, "You _lied _to protect yourself."

"Would you have trusted me otherwise?" Anger fuels her retort, provides the courage she needs to push against his chest, "Would you have allowed me so close if you knew about Jupiter Station? Would you have even _tried _to give me a chance?"

"A chance to what?" He scoffed, "You have been providing Marcus with my whereabouts, I'm sure. No doubt he enjoyed the fact that I brought you along on this mission, it was easier to have you just stop me. Tell me, did he actually want me to see the person in the cryotube before you stopped me? Because if he did I think you may have arrived a little early."

His sarcasm is cutting because he has no idea of the threats Marcus has been making for the past few months, the terror that Rhue has been fighting.

"If you had gotten that far they were going to kill you!" She chokes back the very real fear she feels when she recalls the memory, "Marcus didn't want a repeat of the warehouse."

And that's when the events of the marina, of the _warehouse_ began to make sense, why her presence at the scene made sense. She had _been there_.

The knowledge sets him off like a lit powder keg.

"Ericsson _died _because of you!"

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT ERICSSON!" She yells back at him, "I would have _died _if they killed you! Don't you understand?!"

Her heart is aching, her chest feels like he's ripped it open, but she needs to make him see just how dangerous Marcus is.

"What I understand is that you're a liar and a traitor."

"Please John," Her hand is pressing against her chest as if to hold off the ache in her body, the pain, "You need to stop going after the cryotubes, Marcus knows about them and he's using them against you."

"No, he's been using _you_!" He staggers away from her, anguish and rage warring with such ferocity that he doesn't trust himself to be near her.

Fists clenched and white knuckled, he doesn't look at her but his words order her away.

"Get out."

_"John." _Her voice sounds strangled but he refuses to care.

"Get _out_."

And though she has only ever been considerate of his requests, she hesitates at this one, at this order.

"GET OUT!"

This time he turns to look her in the eye, to stare across the space and watch as she absorbs the words that rip the last of her heart from her chest.

And this time she listens, does as he asks. There is no more yelling, no more passionate defenses of her actions, there is only acceptance and pain.

But before she goes she does one last thing.

"Goodbye John."

Her words are so soft he very nearly misses them despite the silence. But he does not miss the tell-tale brush of her lips against his cheek, the gentle press of her hand on the shoulder she uses to steady herself.

_Goodbye John_.

And then she's gone, stepping through the doorway and out into the storm, into the street.

She doesn't see the car speeding towards her until it's too late.


	13. 13 - The Silence

AN: And here it is! The next chapter in what is shaping up to be quite the dramatic arc of the story. A big shout-out to all the lovely reviewers and those who added this story to their favorites/alerts. It means a lot that you guys continue to support me and I really do appreciate it.

Also, many thanks to the lovely MickeyMonroe for her valuable insight and editing abilities. Your input had only made this chapter a better piece of work and I cannot thank you enough.

I hope you all enjoy - and as always I am always open to feedback.

Much Love,

Voi

* * *

The cottage is empty when he returns. Quiet, tomb-like, even the gaily hued tartan that covers the pillows and bed cannot inject enough life into the chilling emptiness of those few rooms.

Two days he's been gone, and the house is precisely as they left it.

She has not returned.

He can tell the moment he steps through the door. And though the anger lingers, the sense of betrayal is lessened, bowing to the greater sense of logic, of fairness.

He had not been kind to her, had not allowed her to explain. Not truly.

The truth was that the situation was never going to be pleasant, the truth rarely was, but she had proven to him that she could be trusted. Regardless of her motivations she had made herself vulnerable to him on more than one occasion, had shown herself to be a woman of compassion and perhaps that was her weakness.

"_Marcus is using you, using us, can't you see that?"_

As he spies her coat hanging off the little peg by the door, he is reminded of her words, of the very real expression of fear that had crossed her face.

"_I would have died if they killed you!"_

Not once had she denied that her part in it, but always her concern had been for him. That much is clear, but what to do with such a revelation is beyond him.

He had hoped, perhaps naively, that she would have returned to the cottage. But as he stands there on the threshold the silence is answer enough.

The lack of noise, of laughter is deafening. Even the old doors that had once groaned and creaked so charmingly have taken a vow of silence.

Walking past the little kitchen, ignoring the first of the bedrooms, John opens the door to the suite they had shared not that long ago. And though the room smells of her, the soft scent of perfume and her preferred brand of clothing softener, he finds it empty.

Or rather, he finds something far worse; for everything is just as she left it.

The echo of her is everywhere, but she is nowhere to be found.

And the silence grows more terrible with each seconds that passes, as if the house itself blames him for the disappearance of so cheery a tenant.

Telling silence, trembling silence, he does not need to call her name to know she will not hear him. Yet it is impossible to still his lips, to freeze the very air in his lungs as his heart wills his body into action.

"Rhue?"

Two days and her name already sounds strange to his ears, foreign, as if she is no longer someone he knows. The sound of it slips away all too soon, swallowed whole by the silence that now rules.

He does not stumble as he leaves the bedroom, he does not shake or weave unsteadily on his feet as he crosses to the back of the house and the little walled garden.

But his chest does ache, and his lungs do burn. Identifying the emotions are beyond him, but he vows to control them nonetheless.

In. Out.

He settles himself on a lawn chair and breathes slowly, deeply. Mastering each breath, he sits quietly as dawn matures into day. But still the sensation, the pain lingers.

And while the pain is familiar, there is something darker and cloying that he cannot shake it no matter how many minutes tick by.

Unease.

The longer he sits there the more his emotions twist into something else.

Panic.

Worry.

He becomes increasingly discomforted by her disappearance. Obedient she may be, but Rhue would never have left her clothing, her _practical _things here. And he is left ill at ease as he tries to ration why she might have done just that.

Had he truly driven her away so entirely?

Just beyond the garden wall John can hear a couple enjoying a late breakfast. Porcelain clinks delicately, birds begin their morning melodies and every moment fills John with resentment, with jealousy, worry.

And though he swears he is in control of himself, the breathless sound of the woman's laughter has him jerking to his feet and heading inside, to seek refuge in that bleak silence.

But the sound of that laughter lingers, in his ears, in his head.

The more he tries to ignore it the louder it seems, resounding in every complex corner until he's drowning in the noise.

It is the knock on the door that breaks the spell, halts him with such screaming immediacy that John feels it like a physical blow to the back of his head.

The knock on the door is more insistent the second time, the sound rolling like thunder through the room. This was no polite caller either.

"John Harrison, open up!"

The voice, angry and demanding, is one he had long since grown to know. But knowing the speaker and understanding just what the man was doing _here _of all placed are two different things.

The relative confusion did not make him hesitate however, and John found himself face-to-face with Owen before the other man was quite prepared.

"Yes?"

Khan didn't bother inviting the man inside, and Owen didn't ask, but the two men found themselves seated across from one another easily enough, crammed together in the small living room that was divided in half by a low-lying coffee table.

"Well?"

For a man who had been so insistent at the door, Owen's silence rankled and needled at Khan's already prickly temper.

"Mr. Kingsley."

"It's Marla."

The words could not have been chosen with more care. And though the effect of successfully shutting up the other man would have cheered him up under normal circumstances, all Owen could do now was manage a grimace as he broke the news.

"She's been in an accident."

The stunned silence that follows is broken only when Owen turns on the television and switches to the local broadcast just in time to catch the image of Rhue light up the screen.

"And in other news, Hospital officials had finally released the identity of the hit-and-run victim as twenty-six year old Marla McGivers. She is believed to have been here on holiday."

The words have Khan still so entirely that Owen turns to look at him. Bright blue eyes nailed to the screen, the augment is transfixed. That's when the news castor receives the update, and both men watch as the woman's face twists in pain.

John turns the feed off before the new information can be presented.

"She's dead."

He looks the other man in the face, too-bright eyes bellying the hollowness of his voice. And though Owen seems to sense the roiling emotion, Khan's face remains impassive, smooth.

Owen sighs, "Two hours ago."

"But that's not why you are here."

Khan says this with such absolute certainty that Owen knows he has done the right thing in locating this man.

"I'm here because of Admiral Marcus."

Khan's expression cools immediately, and what little rapport they had built vanishes in an instant.

"What about Admiral Marcus?"

He has made no sudden movement, has been careful to show no visible change in temperament, but his eagle-sharp vision catch the hairs on the back of Owen's neck prickle, and the sight of the man's discomfort gives him a small measure of satisfaction.

"He's gone too far this time. Killing Marla was too much. "

The avalanche of anger, of pure rage, nearly blinds him and Khan has to inhale very carefully to avoid choking on the hatred that has his throat pulled tight.

"You think Marcus is responsible for the hit-and-run?"

Owen swallowed, "I _know_ that he is responsible. He's had Marla followed everywhere, and yesterday morning they received an order to get rid of her."

"And how do you know this?"

Owen paused, "Because I was one of the men assigned to follow her."

If his argument with Rhue had taught him anything, it was that no matter the situation, control was to be maintained at all times, even more so when the heart is involved. But it is hard to think of her now, and her loss, so new and fresh feels like an open wound.

But this talk, this _discussion_, is what she would have wanted.

And so, even though every instinct in him demands he reach across the table and strangle Owen, Khan instead chooses to rest his hands very carefully on his lap.

"Continue."

"We were to gather information for Marcus to use as leverage against her."

"What sort of information?"

Owen smiled humorlessly, "I think you can imagine without me spelling it out. What sort of thing do you _think _they would ask us to get?"

"You were following me as well." The pieces fall into place and each one reinforces that he had been a fool those few days ago, "You told her, that night at her apartment, you came to warn her. Said that it was too dangerous."

A flash of pain crosses the other man's face, "It didn't help, she could be so stubborn if she wanted to, and when it came to you there was no reasoning with her."

This time it is John who feels the pain, and he remembers the look on her face as she begged him to listen to her. _Just how much pain had she borne in silence?_ _And for how long?_

It had gotten worse after her trips to that Medical Institute, but how much suffering had she quietly kept to herself?

"Do you know why Marcus would have wanted to kill her?"

"Oh I don't know that he cared about _her _in particular. But he's been doing some housekeeping recently, cleaning up."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know about Jupiter Station?" Owen continued when he saw Khan nod in affirmation, "Section 31 was responsible for the project to wake you up. Genie, the woman you killed, was the lead scientist on that project. Her death guarantees the silence of that department. Marla however was brought on as an independent, and she was dealt with accordingly."

"Congratulations are in order, I think." Owen said with a sort of cold humor, "No one else knows the truth or can say differently now. You truly are John Harrison."

"You know about me." Khan's lips quirked a bland smile, a _dangerous _smile.

Owen nodded, "So did the other man who was minding Marla, who _killed _her."

"He's dead?"

"Naturally."

"Then all that's left is you…and Marcus."

The discussion between them has been an informative one, an enlightening experience for Khan. But the information does not absolve him of his guilt or his anger. Owen may have tried warning Rhue, but in the end he still had worked for Marcus, had known about the danger Rhue faced and done nothing.

Khan is not too proud to know that at some level looking at Owen is like looking at a fractured image of himself. Strong, capable, but too human. In the end, both proved to be all too capable of failing the one woman who had mattered most to them.

Owen provides the next point of conversation by pushing a small silvery prism across the table. Matte grey, the object has two small screens, one with a collection of numbers, coordinates, the other flashing the words 'location: unknown.'

"What is this?"

John looks at the device but does not touch it, the small box that doesn't look much bigger than a pack of cigarettes.

"It's a prototype transporter."

"You mean it's your bargaining chip." Khan looked at Owen to see the man swallow uncomfortably but nod all the same.

"There are only two of these devices in the world. Genie was working on these for Marcus but she send a duplicate to another interested party and it is this private party that gave me this device. It really is the first of its kind though, it can transport you not just anywhere on Earth but anywhere that you have the coordinates to, other _planets _if you so desired."

"And the coordinates currently keyed in?"

"The headquarters of a man who can help you."

"Help me with what? Admiral Marcus?" Khan scoffed, "I can take care of him myself. Besides…what do you get out of it, I wonder?"

"I already have been helped," Owen admitted, "My coming here, this was _his _price for helping me."

The answer made Khan smile grimly, "And what a price. I imagine this benevolent man assumed I would kill you?"

"I couldn't really say. He seems to hold you in high regard, though I know he would not begrudge you if you did." Looking uneasy, Owen's eyes darted several times to the door though his body visibly readied for any threat, his leanly muscles body tensing in his seat.

And though the option hangs there in the air, like a golden opportunity, Khan is suddenly tired, exhausted of the anger, the rage, and the loss of precious lives that had always seemed more valuable than his own.

"I am through doing the dirty work of others, Owen. You may leave."

"John?"

"Get. Out. Before I change my mind, which I assure you is still very much a possibility. Leave. Now."

And when at last the door swings shut, Khan finds himself returned to the silence. But this time it is not the sharp deafening that lends itself to his total self-loathing.

There is simply shock.

_Rhue is dead. _

Owen's presence in the house had made it impossible to really deal with what had so completely shaken him, but now that he is alone there is time. Time but an unwillingness to do just that.

Numbly he rises from the couch.

Hands collect her things as if by their own volition, and slowly he goes around collecting the parts of her life she left behind. Her slippers by the door, the coat he had seen there that morning.

Every little object carries her mark, her scent, her distinctive aesthetic.

He makes it as far as the bedroom door before he stumbles.

A little thing really, his toe catches on the carpet, his reflexes save him from anything disastrous and he remains on his feet. But in that moment he is reminded of the first time he met her, of the very _human_ error that had caused them both to run into another.

She will not be around to tease him about it anymore, to look at him with that knowing glint in her eye and warm smile on her lips. There will be no late night discussions over coffee, or long walks along the Thames in the rain followed by fish and chips.

Inhaling slowly, John puts down the many items in his arms before he goes to retrieve her suitcase. A small, battered leather thing, it bears the marks of travel, of adventures had but never forgotten.

He knows he shall never forget her, nor forgive himself for her loss.

The strain of this truth has his lungs burning, his chest aching as if he has been run through with a hot poker from the fire place. But the silence abides, and he continues to work, to go to each room in turn and gather the things she has left behind.

It is when he had finally collected all trace of her from the cottage, compiled all manner of soap and clothing that he finally opens the suitcase and finds the photograph.

So many things had been digitized, even in his own time; the presence of old fashioned photo-graphs were reserved for only the most special occasions. It shouldn't have surprised him that Rhue had taken some, but it did.

What surprises him even more is the content of the picture, the image of _them _curled up on the couch back at her apartment, their faces smiling back at him as he lifts it higher to take a better look. He can't quite remember when she might have taken it, but the image makes those many nights, those _regular _evenings all the more meaningful.

Tracing the delicate curve of her cheek with a fingertip, he pauses to admire the miniature image of her. Old fashioned though the method, the picture has captured that soft glow of her vibrant hair, the warmth of her expression, the brilliance of that smile.

She's wearing one of her old threadbare sweaters, heather grey and soft, and even now his hands know the texture, can almost touch it, as if the strength of his memory can will it into existence. It had smelled of her, the sweater, smelled of her soap and perfume. Light, feminine. His throat tightens at the last time he had seen her wear it, the night before they had left for Scotland.

But this photo was taken much earlier than that, and over her shoulder, leaning against her though not looking directly at her, he can see himself, nose buried in some old manuscript.

A photo of a regular night in, just the two of them.

To any other person it might have seemed strange, her sunny smile with his seeming disinterest in taking the photo. But John knows where to look, where the telling signs are.

It's there in their hands, in the way one of his hands is covering hers, fingers laced but half-hidden beneath the too large sleeve of that sweater.

It's there in the way her body is curved into his, the easy way she rests herself against him, comfortable and safe.

But most of all, it is there in his eyes. Because even now he can tell that despite the presence of that manuscript, all of his attention had been on _her_. The truth is written so clearly on his face so clearly he wonders if she ever suspected how he truly felt.

But she is gone now, and that is a mystery that will remain unsolved for however long he remains. And the knowledge that those golden evening are now nothing more than memory is maddening, stiflingly painful.

And never before has he felt so lonely.

He is in the process of replacing the photo in the case when the splash of liquid hits its glossy surface, the solitary drop glancing off only to be followed by several more in quick succession.

Jerking in surprise, John tugs the photo out of the way, _safely tucking it again his chest_, before looking skyward, seeing nothing but the unblemished white of the ceiling overhead. And that is when he feels it, the wetness of his cheeks, the tears as they slide down his face.

His _tears_.

The realization stuns him, and he brings trembling hands to touch his face.

But he does not utter a sound.

And only the silence is witness to his grief.

* * *

It's nearly morning when he finishes packing the last of her things in the small suitcase, covering the last of her clothes with that soft tartan shawl they had chosen together.

Dark blue and black.

His colors.

Large hand lingering on the woolen covering, he feels the ache in his lungs all the more sharply before he closes the case and crosses to the dresser, to the small prototype transporter.

But before he can touch it, he hesitates, and for a moment it is as if he is back in that rain-battered house, having that fateful argument one last time.

"_I would have died if they killed you! Don't you understand?!"_

_She sounds like her heart is bleeding, but still he stares at her coldly, unmoved. _

_ "What I understand is that you're a liar and a traitor."_

The memory of his words, of his callous disregard for her, makes him ache all the more, now that he knows there will be no forgiveness, there will be no reconciliation.

"_Please John," Her hand is pressing against her chest as if to hold off the ache in her body, and he knows he feels the same pain but it is mixed with the bitterness of betrayal. _

"_You need to stop going after the cryotubes, Marcus knows about them and he's using them against you."_

_ "No, he's been using you!" It is the anger that makes him stagger away, the fury making it almost impossible to think straight. _"Get out."

_ "John." Her voice sounds strangled in her throat. _

_ "Get out."_

_ He repeats himself more loudly when she hesitates._

_ "GET OUT!" _

_ And this time she listens, does as he asks. There is no more yelling, no more passionate defenses of her actions, there is only acceptance and pain. _

_ A final parting kiss. Her last gift. _

"_Goodbye John."_

Her final words will haunt him until his last breath, and perhaps it is fitting that he should carry the weight of that tender goodbye as a wound across his heart. He will never be able to remove the shame of knowing that the last words he ever spoke to her were so cruel and thoughtless.

And as he stares down at the prototype he makes a choice.

Once upon a time he might have been wary, might have hesitated to act so rashly. But _she _is gone now, and there is nothing preventing him throwing himself into the wind.

The losses have compounded one upon another until there is nothing left and the woman who should have been at his side, _protected, _and is now a corpse in some unknown hospital room.

There is no going back, there is only onward.

Khan activates the device.

* * *

He materializes in a large windowless office, greeted by a face that is at once familiar and yet unknown. The man has the traits of a friend, of a woman who was once his fiercest warrior, his most stalwart defender. The color of her hair, the sharpness of her brow, these traits are her gift to her heir.

And as the man rises from his seat, Khan sees that so too has he inherited her smile.

But he has never seen this man before, and when he says as much he is met with a wider grin.

"Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Calvin."


	14. 14 - The Mirror

AN: And I'm back!

Thanks to everyone who has been so supportive (and constructive) thus far! I apologize it's taken so long, but like I was telling my lovely beta **MickyMonroe **there were several directions I could have taken this next arc and I wanted to hit just the right tone. Speaking of Micky, the lack of spelling/grammar errors are the product of her patience and time - so a big thanks to her as well!

Thanks again to all the readers/reviewers - you really do make a girl want to keep getting better :)

Enjoy and much love,

Voi

* * *

It's been nearly a month since he's arrived at the organization Calvin had introduced merely as the Foundation. A research conglomerate with close ties to bioengineering and what remained of the augment program; it rode the very cutting edge of technology and legality. It was also sitting right under Admiral Marcus' nose.

Standing on one of the many terraces, John gazed down to the fog-shrouded glitter of San Francisco and almost found the strength to smile. What would Marcus have done if he knew that the people working so hard against him were all but breathing down his neck?

And they were working hard, exceptionally so. The sheer volume of data, of information that the Foundation was sitting on was staggering.

With Calvin's help and network of informants he had managed to locate nearly all of the remaining members of his crew, his family. Seventy-two remained, held in stasis until someone woke them. Of that number he had used the very particular capabilities of the transporter to collect seventy of them. Two more and he would have them all, protected, kept well away from Admiral Marcus and his visions of grandeur.

Turning away from the balcony to walk through the large hall that served as his family's temporary home, he walked by each tube with a quiet contentment, an ease he had not felt since waking from his own stasis. And yet, despite this victory his satisfaction was less than it should have been, diminished.

Four weeks, Twenty-eight days, six hundred and seventy hours…it seemed that time did nothing for the pain, the guilt. Still he dreamt of her, woke up reaching for warmth of a body long since gone, chilled by death.

"Mr. Singh?"

The Foundation was as secure as the Archives of Startfleet and more than forthcoming, but after so many months of hiding, the use of his true name had become as jarring as 'John Harrison' has been.

But perhaps this change was for the best, perhaps coming to accept Khan as his persona once more would free him to live anew. He could no longer be the man known as John. John was a man of compassion, of affection, the man Rhue had spent those many months with. And though Khan loved and cared for her as well, it is John who has been rendered inconsolable with her death.

It had been Khan, steadfast and experienced warrior, who had swallowed the agony and managed to push through each day.

But here, surrounded by his family, he felt much like he had with her at his side, a balance of both men, with the strengths and weaknesses of both.

"Yes?"

Turning to where the speaker was standing, framed in the doorway, Khan identified Calvin by the state of his dress, his usual lab coat and slacks.

"I'm glad I found you," The smile on the other man's face was patient, understanding. They were not the oldest of friends, but a mutual respect had flourished almost immediately. In many ways Calvin was truly his ancestor's heir, stubborn and fierce, but he was also a tempered force, deliberate and mindful of his actions. Marla's trust in this man had been explained to the fullest and Khan could find no fault with her choice.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about something I think might interest you." Calvin gestured to the pods, "Unless you would prefer to spend today in another fashion?"

The offer was a generous one but one that Khan had made ample use of in the days and months that had passed. And today of all days, with his heart sore and his emotions awry, Khan appreciate the chance at distraction.

"By all means, lead on."

Khan found himself in the suite of research labs a moment later, passing by the countless nameless scientists that provided the cover for the more covert research that occurred at the Foundation.

He had been careful to learn the names of each and every one, to examine them in turn, to question everything and take nothing for granted.

Never again would he allowed himself to be fooled into believing he was safe. Marla had not been malicious in her secret keeping, but he had not known her nearly as well as he had imagined, and perhaps that was the source of his great bitterness. If only he had known her better, known her _truly_, perhaps he could have changed her fate.

"Here we are."

They stopped at the end of a long hallway, and Calvin was quick to press his palm on the scanner and follow the prompted security protocols. And when at last the heavy doors slid open Khan found himself faced with all manner of scientific machine, hidden in a room without windows.

But the focus was clear, and Khan eyed the large red vials lined the wall with interest as he followed Calvin inside.

"Blood?"

Wondering aloud, Khan crossed the room to read the reports that cluttered the workstation, his eyes rapidly scanning the documents as he easily gleaned the knowledge that lay there.

"So this is how you have been making so much progress."

There was approval in his voice, and he turned to Calvin to find the man approaching him with what must be the conclusions of their research thus far.

"Augmented blood is one of the most powerful cure-alls mankind has ever produced." Handing over the data, Calvin gestured to the far wall where pictures of various people were framed.

"These people are waiting for us to find them a solution, and all of them are running out of time."

"But you said the blood was a cure-all?"

A flash of pain was covered by a rueful smile, "Broken bones, terrible illness…_my_ blood has the ability to speed recovery and sometimes even cure illness." The flash of pain crossed his face a second time, as he amended himself, "Not all the time, mind you, but most. 'Cure all' is perhaps a misnomer."

"But the research suggests that it should be able to take care of most known issues, what are the limitations?"

"It's the host's white blood cells." Calvin rummaged through the reports before pulling the appropriate file, "Here we go. Take a look at this."

Khan watched in silence as the recording played, watched as blood was introduced into a sample and observed as the host's immune system began to fight what might otherwise have been lifesaving cells.

"It's the volume," Calvin sighed in defeat, "Too much augmented blood and the host's natural defenses begin to attack it."

Khan paused to consider it, "Have you tried augmenting the cells?"

"We've been working on it since we made the discovery, but my cells fight off any additional components. The Eugenics program had volumes on how to do this but they've long since been lost, or at least hidden."

"So you've been forced to use trial and error."

"Until now."

Khan looked up to find Calvin watching him warily, waiting for him to make the final mental jump. And he did, for not a moment later the solution presented itself, so elegantly simple that any other solution seemed barbaric in comparison.

"_Oh_…I see." The smile on his lips was one of genuine appreciation, "_My _blood. That is the solution to your problem."

"We should be able to synthesize a solution from your blood."

"But you could _use _my blood as well; not just as a means to a solution but as the solution itself, to give to patients."

Calvin hesitated, "Only if you allowed it. We would not force you."

And that was what made the difference, between Marcus and Calvin, between the wrong and right side of his situation.

Khan rolled up his sleeve as he made his choice.

"I give it to you freely."

And for the first time in what had been a very long while, Khan felt connected to the world around him, returned to reality as if suddenly awakening from a deep sleep. Marla might never know about this one small act, but this was her legacy.

It was this quiet mindfulness that guided him outdoors several hours later, through the courtyard to the small library.

John had spent many hours there in the past month, had found the mix of old books and old architecture comforting. He had only to walk inside, to see the dappled light cutting through the gloom to feel at peace.

He could almost hear her laughter echoing in the vaulted spaced, could imagine her brilliant russet hair bobbing as she danced by the countless books and art, each aisle as familiar to her as her own home.

Would he never forget her? His perfect memory has always been a double edged sword, and he resented it now as much as he savored recalling each heartfelt moment.

"Khan?" Her voice flowed over him like a soft breeze, a gentle caress, and for a moment he could almost believe she was there, standing before him.

It was only when the voice repeated itself, this time a little louder, a little more forceful; that he realized that there _was _someone calling to him.

Turning, he jerked to a sudden stop as a familiar face stared back at him framed by hair so vibrant and rich that it could only be one person.

But she did not freeze as he did, and before he could open his mouth she was darting away, hair swinging behind her as she vanished around the corner.

He moved without thinking, feet carrying him to the end of the aisle as he followed her, feeling suddenly unbalanced as he caught a flash of scarlet disappearing up one of the flights of stairs.

He followed the stairs up, winding ever higher and never once did he consider what he was doing. Instinct rode him hard and the pounding of his heart in his ears made the rest of the world seem quiet in comparison.

It was impossible to tell how long he shadowed her steps or how many flights of stairs slipped away unnoticed as he scaled them on his way to her. But when she finally came to a stop it was with no small surprise that he found himself in a hall he had never ventured before, the third floor of the library in an obscure wing that overlooked the courtyard.

"Marla?"

He saw her lips curve in a smile as she finally swung around to look at him, feminine hands propping themselves on her hips as she gave him a considering look.

"Not quite."

And in that moment the illusion shattered and he knew she was telling the truth. Though this woman in front of him was the same height and build, and certainly her hair was strikingly similar there were many more differences. Standing so very close, he could see them now. But it was not the stark reality of this truth that had his throat tightening, rather it was how pathetically simple it had been to trick him. Because now, as he stood not ten feet from her he could pick out the hundred little differences that set this woman apart from the one long gone.

She might have been able to fool anyone else, but _he _should have known the difference immediately.

"Who are you?"

The smile on her face turned into a grin, and there was a smug sort of self-assurance that seemed to suffuse her answer.

"My name is Molly," she cocked her head to the side and gave him a playful wink, "Molly McGivers. Calvin says you've spent quite a bit of time with my sister."

"Marla was your older sister."

"By nine minutes," Molly sighed, "We are twins…we do look similar right? Though by the look on your face I'd say Marla did a good job of keeping me a secret, you look positively stunned."

Khan felt his stomach clench, was this truly another one of Marla's many secrets come to light?

"Then again…if she cared for you at all I'm not surprised." The amusement in her voice sharpened to something dangerous, "She knows me too well."

The implication was blatant, and Khan felt his temper sharpen immediately though something else about her words tugged as his attention.

"You think you are a danger to me?" His hands slipped very slowly into the pocket of his coat as he struggled to reign in his sudden temper.

The idea was almost laughable…and insulting that Marla seemed to think so little of him.

Molly didn't seem to appreciate the joke, but her smile remained in place nonetheless, "It doesn't matter what I think, _she _certainly made sure I never met you. I can only guess why."

She didn't elaborate but there was no disguising the temper behind her tone, "You really are exactly how I imagined, you know. Marla might have to answer more than a few questions now."

And then, because it seemed she was done with him, she waved him off, brushing past him as she bid him farewell, close enough so he could smell the faded fragrance of her soap. It was the brand her sister had preferred.

Khan stood there for a long time afterwards, starting at the door at the end of the hall, mulling over the details of his encounter, trying to tease out why he remained uneasy, dissatisfied with what had transpired.

Molly who both was and was not his beloved Marla.

At first glance they might have appeared mirrored images of one another, but to him there would only ever be one original. And no matter how much his heart might have liked to ease its ache, the truth remained.

But so too did the unsettling feeling linger, and he stood there for minutes more as he tried to glean every last detail from their momentary meeting. To find the mental key that would free his mind from the disquieting stiltedness that consumed his attention.

A stray beam of deep orange light pierced his eye as the sun sunk those last few inches below the horizon. Sharp and bright, the pain of it lanced the delicate wiring of his eye and snapped his head back.

And that was when it happened.

The illusive bit of information that had been bothering him solidified in a second, crystalizing as his mind finally made sense if it. And with the realization came the staggering possibility, the terrible danger of such great hopefulness that his heart seemed poised to burst from his chest.

The epiphany. The clue in the conversation. The very reason his whole mind couldn't seem to stop turning Molly McGivers' words over and over in his brain.

She had been talking about Marla in the present tense.


	15. 15 - The Awakening

AN: And here is another chapter, thankfully at a more appropriate time (not a month like last time - again I apologize).

I wanted to thank everyone for the tremendous response I received for the last chapter - it was great to know so many people are enjoying the ride. And of course, a big shout out to the lovely MickeyMonroe, for her help editing this chapter!

Thanks again!

Voi

* * *

She woke for the first time in the wee hours of the morning.

For such an important moment it seemed to come so quietly. Understated. Only he was there to witness the sudden exhale of breath that was shallower than the others, to watch with bated breath as her eyes fluttered open and she returned to the waking world.

It was still dark, a deep purple veil draped across the room, but it was morning and when at last her eyes fell upon him she seemed to know precisely the hour.

"Good Morning, Calvin."

Her voice was rough from disuse, but pleasant, sweet almost, though he could see the wariness in her eyes, the hesitation and pain in her tightly clasped hands.

Her eyes scanned the room, straining her eyes in the dimness, searching for the one man he knew was not there.

"He's safe."

There was no point in pretending he didn't know who she was searching for, and he eased her into the truth with the most general piece of information he could offer.

The last time she had seen Khan had been on that rain soaked night that had very nearly killed her. A month of intensive care coupled with the very special properties of Khan's blood may have worked wonders but Marla was still _human_, and that meant she had all the sensitivities of one.

He did not dare tell her what had transpired in the time she had been left unawares, refused to tell her about the month Khan had spent nearly working himself to death, of pushing Foundation resources to the brink as he sought out nearly every member of his family and retrieved them.

Perhaps one day she would get that information from Khan himself, but Calvin had decided on that night that whatever lay between her and that man was best left for them to resolve alone. Goodness knew he was busy enough safeguarding their secrets as well as the lives of the thousands that worked for him.

Not that everyone who accepted a paycheck seemed to appreciate that either.

_"You called for me?"_

_ She leaned against the door with that petulant expression on her face, the one that said he was going to get nowhere unless he catered to her particular mood. _

_ "Mr. Singh just spoke to me." Striving for patience, Calvin folded his hands and placed them on his desk, "He mentioned you as well." _

_ Calvin paused, "He called you 'Molly.'"_

_ The expression on her face morphed into one of smug pleasure, "Did he? And what's wrong with that my love?"_

_ "Marin…" Calvin sighed, "I told you to leave your aliases out of Foundation business. The last thing we need is for other people to get suspicious; leave the innocent ones alone."_

_ "And he's an innocent?" Marin scoffed, "We all know his file, Calvin. He's a dangerous man." She crossed her arms, "You know I should have been assigned to that mission. Look what happened."_

_ She gestured vaguely to the building framed by his window but they both knew who she was referring to. _

_ "What happened to Marla…" Calvin's brow furrowed into a frown, "I admit we should have watched her more carefully but she knew the risks."_

_ "I knew the risks, she didn't." Marin pinned him with a stare, "You confused us back on Jupiter Station and made the mistake of drawing her into something she had no business knowing about."_

_ Calvin straightened, "Her arrival at Jupiter Station was as much your fault as it was mine. We had been planning your assignment for months. You had impersonated your sister before, how was I to know the difference?"_

_ Watching the bland expression on her face, the lack of response, Calvin returned to the topic at hand, "Did I not tell you to leave him alone, to focus on caring for your sister and the mission at hand?"_

_ "He _is _the mission at hand." Sulking, Marin slid from her place at the door to begin a languid tour of the room, hand running along the books that lined his walls, "Besides, the last two pods will require his utmost attention, his _focus_, and I am telling you that he won't be able to do that if his mind is nearly four weeks back and resting with a woman he thinks is a corpse."_

_ "We had agreed to wait." Calvin frowned, though he could not entirely disagree with her logic, "Your sister has only just recovered from the worth of her injuries. His blood may work a near miracle if we can administer it to her soon. But what sort of plan uses a woman in a coma as a means to encourage focus?"_

_ "She'll wake up eventually." Molly said, "That thought will be enough for him." _

_ "You can't know that, not for sure."_

_ Pausing by the large painting in his office Marin remained silent as she stared up at it, considered it with a sort of quiet contemplation that she rarely showed. _

_ "Marin?"_

_ "She'll wake up, Calvin. I know it." _

Marin had been right.

Somehow, some way, the woman had known her twin would wake from that eternal oblivion. But whether that was through intuition alone or the very careful manipulation of the people, Calvin couldn't say.

Had Marin used Rhue's survival as a means to seal the deal for Khan's blood? Or had she mentioned it for another reason entirely?

As one of the most highly skilled agents in his employment, Calvin respected Marin's ability to position the Foundation in just the right place, but it was growing increasingly more difficult to trust her motivations.

"What happened to me?"

Marla's voice grated in the quiet air, and she coughed several times as she tried to clear it. Rising from his chair, Calvin was quick to fill a small glass with water and offer it to her, finding her almost ashen by the time he got to her side. The only color on her face, twin spots of color on her cheeks, made her look feverish rather than healthy.

Given that she had just recently been injected with a very potent combination of augmented blood and a specialized drip solution, her precarious health was not quite the surprise it might have been. But her weakness was cause for concern, and when Marla could scarcely manage a few mouthfuls before exhaustion forced her to cradle the drink in her lap, Calvin stepped in to help her take a few deep drinks more.

"Thank you."

Flushed from exertion, Marla managed a smile nonetheless.

"Now, won't you tell me what has happened? How long have I been out?"

It's been nearly six weeks since she's woken, and his account was hardly the most interesting but Calvin did she bid. And slowly, so she could follow and understand, he told her of the many things she had missed, the shifts and shudders of Starfleet, the news of a starship named Enterprise.

In this way they passed nearly two hours. And by the time he was done the sun had begun its climb into the eastern half of the sky.

"I see."

Marla sat quietly for a long moment as she absorbed his words, internalized what was ultimately an imperfect summary of six weeks. Calvin didn't doubt she would ask others to slowly build a more complete collection of information. But for now she seemed to accept the knowledge she had.

Watching as she seemed to fade, Calvin helped settle her more comfortably before turning the lamp light on low and bidding her goodbye though he suspected she had fallen asleep the moment her head had touched the pillow.

She had made no further inquiries of Khan, and for that Calvin was grateful. But as he exited the room, leaving the room door cracked open he spotted the very man on his mind.

Seated against the far wall, his dark hair pillowed his head against the wall as he leaned back in his chair. But as a tall man, he was stretched out awkwardly, and Calvin grimaced in sympathy.

"Mr. Singh?"

The other man roused in an instant, not just awake but _alert. _And though Calvin had yet to elaborate on the situation, Khan's long stride had him across the hall in the span of second.

There was some indescribable tension in the man's impressive frame, an unnamable expression upon his face as he glanced at the door. And as Calvin stood there, the spectator on a private moment, he was aware of the painful _something _in the other man's eye.

"Thank you."

Khan directed the sentiment to him, directed his attention to _him_. But there was no missing the single moment in which Khan's blue eyes dipped to the little figure in the bed.

_"Thank you." _

But Khan made no move to enter the room, and Marla slept on, undisturbed.


	16. 16 - The Cost

AN: Hello All! Thanks for being so lovely about the wait - me and lovey MickyMonroe were trying to get this chapter just right and I think we finally got it :) I won't say much more because I want it to speak for itself.

As always, I love to hear from everyone, so take a moment and leave me a message if you so desire.

And thank you, everyone, for your support - this is my most followed story to-date and it is wonderful to know how many of you are interested in my work.

Enjoy! Much Love,

Voi

* * *

They've been circling each other like planets in parallel orbits, drifting in and out of the same rooms, talking to the same people, asking the same questions but ultimately living solitary lives. They may live in the small solar system that is the Foundation, revolving steadily around Calvin, but for Rhue and John, the existence is an incomplete one.

Constantly aware of one another, constantly _thinking _about the other, the longing is a silent one, just as their pain is one that is buried deep and left unspoken. Neither has the courage to bridge the chasm that tore them asunder, that shattered what had once been the closest of relationships.

They struggle onwards, trying to convince themselves that they are content enough in the knowledge that the other person is safe. All the while ignoring the terrible yearning that clings to their skin, they do not see how even now they linger in the places the other had before. They are like shadows, for their struggles are silent ones, lonely ones.

For Rhue the return to the waking world is a hard one, both physically and emotionally demanding though it is her heart which suffers most of all. The events of that rain-slicked evening are as recent as if they happened yesterday, and part of her bitterly resents that she must be so near to him when it seems so obvious he still wants nothing to do with her.

Not that she blames him.

But the guilt is not strong enough to cover the hurt, and even now she cannot stop the sharp pain that lances through her chest whenever she sees even the hint of that strong silhouette. She may have lost his trust, lost his heart, but he still seems to be lodged firmly in her own.

It is a small consolation that he has found the Foundation, the support and protection of a group that _can _be trusted. When she leaves it will be with the knowledge that at least now he is safe from Marcus.

And she will leave, soon, if she can manage it. Each day is a little easier than the last; her body strengthening with each breath, the repair processes a slow but sure thing. She has spoken with Calvin at length about what she should do once she had recovered. Hard though it is, to walk away from the Foundation, from _him, _she cannot see any escaping the consequences of these actions and though it may be selfish, she is _tired _of all the lying.

She just wants to be herself.

Simple, uncomplicated Marla McGivers; she walks along the meandering path of the grounds and wonders where _that _woman went.

Life used to be so much simpler, safer. The dusty books, the artifacts, months of fending off Marcus made it feel like a lifetime ago.

_Was it worth it? _

It feels almost like a betrayal this question of hers. But as she stands there, hands trembling and lungs aching, she cannot think past the pain, cannot taste anything but the bitterness of loss. Calvin would disagree if he heard her, Rhue knows this, but just this once she want to be selfish, to be entirely honest with herself and acknowledge that though the Foundation may have won a great victory _she _has lost everything.

Stifling the tears takes more strength than she can muster, and more than a few escape as she hobbles under the elegant stone portico of the nearest building.

It is here that she gathers herself, shores up the delicate spun-sugar structures that represent that last of her strength. Breathing deeply, exhaling slowly, she watches the sky darken to a velvety blue before she finally returns to her walk.

Alone, she takes her turn around the campus, watches the nameless members of yet another secret organization mill about as she walks silently by. The silence of the evening is soothing, the darkness comfortable in that it hides her scars from curious glances, prevents questions about the hitch in her otherwise smooth gait.

She is not as she once was.

And though part of her worries that she is _less, _there is another voice that disagrees. Stubborn and proud, Rhue acknowledges with no small pain that the voice sounds suspiciously like John, whispering in her ear, refusing to allow her to just lie down and give up; it is this part that pushes her to walk every day.

Walk and strengthen her body, to be a _stronger _woman than she was before.

But she is not strong enough to stay here, not anymore.

A week, just one more, and then she will ask again. And next time even Calvin will not be able to say no, because regardless of what he _does _say, she will leave.

So sure of this conclusion, so entirely consumed by this thought does she become, that when she returns to reality she realizes that she has wandered far off her usual path.

And instead of the familiar stone and metal archway of the library she finds instead the delicate vaulted spaces of a narrow corridor, lit by tens of golden wall sconces. And it is these glowing points that lead her to _them_.

Cryotubes, row after row of them fill the large hall that opens before her, spilling cold light across the marbles floors, washing the room in a chill of glass and steel.

_Was it worth it? _

She was not the one who retrieved them, does not know if this was the work of the Foundation as a whole or just John, but as she stares at those endless lines of pods, of _people_, Rhue finds thather answer almost changes.

_Was it worth it? _

The room itself is spacious, beautifully modern with its clean lines and sleek interiors. The windows with their near-perfect placement seem to almost frame the city below, casting them as fantastic wall-paintings of the Bay rather than reality. But for all of that beauty, the truly spectacular lies quietly before her. Lives that were saved, _people _that will never know the pain that John had known so intensely, Rhue looks at the sleeping faces of John's family and feels her heart shudder in relief that at least these people will never know the pain of betrayal. Not like John did.

The guilt nearly sends her to her knees.

Surrounded by the people he had loved so very dearly, Rhue cannot help but feel like the traitor all over again.

But they in the tubes do not judge, and the silence gives her time to contemplate her choices, contemplate everything that led to her standing in this hall.

_Was it worth it?_

The answer remains as elusive as ever.

But maybe if she returns to this hall, to these people, maybe one day she will know for sure.

For now she has her grief and her guilt.

At least, until she leaves for good.

* * *

He's watched her visit them every night for nearly a week, his family in their pods.

Struggling to walk, shaking from exertion, she arrives at the same time each night. And because she is a creature of habit he has been able to track the path she takes, to follow silently after her, like the ghostly guardian he should have been.

And though his crew continues their silent slumbering undisturbed by the appearance of a lone woman _he _has been disturbed, been shaken to the very core.

He can see how much her visits cost her, but he wonders if she has any idea how much it costs him, has any clue how he must fight to stop himself from going to her, _helping_ her. Too many nights have passed with him standing helplessly by, rooted by guilt and fear, as she has stumbled on the uneven ground, has wept though for what he does not know.

It is more than empathy that leaves his chest aching every night.

He has done his best to leave her alone, to not burden her or force her to deal with the night he knows still haunts them both, but he cannot remain silent any longer.

Whether she knows it or not, she has forced his hand.

Because _she is leaving _and like the selfish man he is Khan cannot stand the thought.

He had heard the news from Calvin that morning and it has haunted his waking hours, driven him to distraction all day.

It is only when he finds her, seated among his family that the frantic spinning of his mind quiets.

Bent double, it's impossible to know for sure if she is sleeping or just resting, and while he might have hesitated before, today he cannot afford such a weakness.

"Marla?"

He speaks her name softly, and despite the size of the room the sound remains as gentle as when he first murmured it. Perhaps too gentle, however, for she does not even move.

Though she is no longer connected to half a dozen little machines, she sits so still that he can almost envision the silvery cords and crystal medical equipment that have framed the image of her in his mind. He had visited her every night after they had administered his blood, had stood in the doorway of her room and watched her for a few moments each day just to reassure himself that she was still breathing.

But he had never taken a step into that room, had never attempted to impose himself on a space that was hers, and hers alone.

"Rhue?"

The word, _her name,_ sticks in his throat and almost chokes him. He's called her by her proper name since that night, could not find it in himself to use the name she had told him was reserved for friends. Khan wasn't even sure she wanted to talk to him, never mind be his _friend_.

But this time, with _this _name, she responds. And with nary a sound he watches as her body slowly unfurls, like an evening bloom, the movements languorous, smooth and elegant, in a way that recalls her manner before the incident.

But it is not the hundred little differences that shake him; rather, it is the look in her eyes. For when she does finally look at him, her stare is so penetrating that he feels the breath catch in his throat. And though her expression is neither accusatory nor remotely hostile he feels the sting of guilt at the lack of warmth, at what once upon a time would have been the sweetest of homecomings.

"Khan."

She sounds resigned, but the look in her eyes is focused. She _knows _him, perhaps better than anyone, and that has not changed.

Of all the people he has met, _she _has been the only one who could tell the difference between the two very facets of him, the two sides that only seemed to align when she was around.

He waits until she straightens in her seat, pauses to allow her to settle herself before he says the two words that have weighed on him most heavily. And though he does manage to say them the first time he tries, the look of surprise on her face, of complete astonishment, compels him to repeat his words a second time.

"I'm sorry."

He has never in his entire life had to apologize, and even now there is no one _forcing _him to. But the words need to be said, for him, for them _both._

Maintaining a distance so as not to alarm her, he faces the wall rather than continue to watch her expression, folding his hands carefully before him. He has always been a physically imposing man; tall, muscular, with a stare he knew many found unsettling. The last thing he wanted was to make her feel any of those things.

The silence that settles between them stretches on for some time, but he dares not break it. Instead he finds the small comforts where he can. Remembering those terrible few days back in Scotland, the knowledge that she is here, is in the same room as him and is _alive _is almost more good news that he knows what to do with.

But the idea that she will leave, will disappear as completely as if she _had _died, is more than he can bear. He is a proud man, but he is also a realist, and the memory of that morning following their fight blazes in his mind, never to be forgotten.

"You don't need to apologize."

Her voice is precisely as he remembers it, _exactly _the same tone, cadence, melodic lilt that fills his memories. But the expression on her face is not, and the smile on her lips is so sad it seemed a mockery to call it a smile at all. It is all there in her eyes, the sadness, and the pain. _He _put that there, maybe not all of it, but he could have prevented it, and had been blind.

"Don't be absurd."

He cannot help the bite of his words, but she has so flabbergasted him that he cannot help it. "I am responsible for what happened to you. Through my negligence, my _arrogance_-" He draws up short when she makes a soft sound of protest.

"You couldn't have known." Her voice is soft, but clear in the silence, "All of Starfleet was working to keep you in the dark."

"I should have known."

Forcing his gaze to remain on the skyline outside the window, Khan swallows hard, "If I had known you half as well as I thought, I should have been able to tell."

And he can see the signs now; hindsight was terribly perfect that way, so clear, so straightforward.

"You're one man."

"I'm supposed to be _more _than one man. _Better_." And the severity of that statement, the viciousness of that guilt is so sharp that he falls silent once more.

The sound of footfalls on the stone only register distantly in his consciousness, and it is not until there is a touch on his arm that the sound makes sense. Hesitant and feather light, it nearly makes him jump, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the distance even as his hands tighten around themselves.

"I shouldhave been able to tell, Marla."

There is no denying the defeat that is so infused with his tone, and they lapse into silence once more, letting it settle around them for several long moments before she breaks it once more.

"John..."

He knows what she is about to say, dreads it, but remains quiet.

"I wanted you to know that I'll be leaving, soon."

He turns his head to look at her out of the corner of his eye and waits for her to continue, forces himself to just listen to her. Listen like he should have those many weeks ago.

"I don't know where I'm going yet, preferably somewhere far away."

That sad smile is back on her face, "I can hardly stand being here any longer. I'm no longer useful and…" She gestures helplessly as her eyes fill with tears.

"I can't do this anymore."

She sound as tired as he feels, and the desire to tug her close very nearly wins over. Instead, he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"Can't do what?"

There is a tremor of pain in his voice that he quickly stifles as he waits for her to reply. But instead of answering she shakes her head.

That barest of movements makes the light catch the side of her face, and Khan turns just in time to watch it explode like shards of glass across her skin, watch it illustrate the cost of his failure. Scars, like spider webs, as delicate as lace, dust her cheeks, the curve of her chin and neck.

He's turned towards her before he's quite sure what he's doing, grabbing her with such intensity that he is not surprised when she starts, though the look of fear and panic has him stopping short, releasing her instantly as his chest clenches painfully.

Stricken, he cannot seem to find the right words as he stands there, rooted in horror. He feels heartsick, but more than that, he feels revulsion for himself that threatens to manifest itself in an almost physical illness.

And in that moment he knows that no matter what he might have wanted, he cannot ask her to give more than she already has. He may not be strong enough on his own, but he will be _damned _before he asks for more.

"John?"

This time, it is _her _hands on his shoulders, pulling him down towards her until he is on his knees and she is bent over to cradle him close.

"Say something."

Her voice is soothing as she whispers the words into his crown of hair. Framed in moonlight and surrounded by his most loyal followers, he is a prince kneeling at the feet of a simple maid and never more has he felt more humbled, more in awe of her.

"Tell me, John."

She is so warm, so giving that his throat threatens to close with the force of his agony. Losing her will surely be the end of him.

And the resolution that he had made such a short time ago wavers as she strokes the back of his neck, continues to hold him so near that he can feel the thundering of her heart.

"_John_."

Her insistence is what finally forces the words from his mouth.

"Hate me if you wish. _Loathe _me, I know I deserve it. But I…I _beg _you, Do not leave."

It is pathetic that he has been brought to his knees by this one very _human _woman, but he cannot recall the shame that might have once silenced him. He has known her for what amounts to only a few months, lived beside her less than that, but he cannot imagine being without her now.

He will gladly surrender his vanity, his pride, if it means she will even _consider _remaining with him.

"Don't leave."

And this time the words do not cost him anything because there, at that exact moment, he realizes he has _nothing_ else. Family surrounding him, a network of operatives at his disposal and he knows he has _nothing _worth fighting for if she leaves him now.

He deserves nothing, has come to realize he has taken so much from her without ever repaying her in kind, but still he has to make this final request. To beg a woman who has given much, perhaps even _too _much, to a man who failed her when she needed him most of all.

"_Please_."


End file.
